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MATOAKA 

WILLIAM GRANT BURLEIGH 







MATOAKA 


A STORY OF THE FIGHT FOR AMERICANISM 


BY 

WILLIAM GRANT BURLEIGH J 

I* 


dorranceT company 

PHILADELPHIA 




.ts 


COPYRIGHT 1924 
DORRANCE A COMPANY INC 




Manufactured in the United States ef America 


NOV 20 


J 

£)Cl A 807899 -i-- 



'K.-fc ~\r 




Dedicated 

To 

All Loyal Americans 




























Let every American, every lover of liberty, every 
well-wisher to his posterity swear by the blood of 
the Revolution never to violate in the least particu¬ 
lar the laws of the country, and never to tolerate 
their violation by others. As the patriots of ’76 
did to the support of the Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence, so to the support of the Constitution 
and the laws, let every American pledge his life, 
his property, and his sacred honor; let every man 
remember that to violate the law is to trample 
upon the blood of his fathers and to tear the 
charter of his own and his children’s liberty. Let 
reverence for the laws be breathed by every 
American mother to the lisping babe that prattles 
on her lap. Let it be taught in schools, in semin¬ 
aries, and in colleges. Let it be written in primers, 
spelling books, and almanacs. Let it be preached 
from the pulpit, proclaimed in legislative halls, 
and enforced in courts of justice. In short, let 
it become the political religion of the Nation. 

Abraham Lincoln. 


















CONTENTS 


I The Whitfields.. 

II The Preacher . 

III The Young Surveyor. 

IV The Fox Chase. 

V School Days . 

VI The Street Meeting. 

VII War Clouds. 

VIII In France.. 

IX King of the Moonshiners. 

X Malcomson Visits Matoaka 

XI The Sheriff Stages a Raid. 

XII Planning Politcal Reform . 

XIII Felix Raids a Hornet’s Nest 

XIV The New Deputy Sheriff. 

XV Matoaka Offers to Marry Felix 

XVI A Race with Death. 

XVII In Rattlesnake Glen. 

XVIII The Election . 

XIX Last Stand of the Outlaws 

XX A Day of Mourning. 

XXI A New Day. 


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22 

28 

35 

44 

5i 

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67 

76 

9i 

99 

no 

119 

126 

136 

146 

158 

164 

171 

180 

184 































MATOAKA 



































































































































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MATOAKA 

I 

The Whitfields 

Alonzo Whitfield sat slumped in a home-made 
hickory armchair on his front porch, slowly puff¬ 
ing at the long stem of an old cob pipe filled 
with home-grown, home-cured tobacco. He was 
watching the sun as it dipped behind a high ridge 
of mountains to the westward, with a dreamy 
look in his half-closed eyes. A bright Spring 
day was peacefully dying. 

The peaks of the Big Black mountains in the 
distance wore a halo of golden glory lent by 
the rays of the sinking sun. Dark shadows were 
gathering in the lower reaches of the canyons 
and hollows along the hillsides, and a thin vapory 
mist rose from the meadows and the mountain 
stream that meandered and rippled through them. 

The Whitfield home was an old story-and-a- 
half hewed-log building with a stone chimney 
at each end and a lean-to cook room attached to 
the rear. The house stood well back from the 
13 


14 


MATOAKA 


road in a grove of ancient oaks, whose wide flung 
branches almost hid it from view. Behind it dark, 
heavily timbered mountains loomed high, cast¬ 
ing a somber shade. A wide yard enclosed by 
a ramshackle paling fence ran down to the road, 
to which untrimmed grapevines clung, trying, 
apparently, to hold it up. A few straggling rose 
bushes, hollyhocks, and other old-fashioned flow¬ 
ers, with a sprinkling of catnip and sage here and 
there, adorned the yard. 

Mrs. Whitfield was busy in the back lot with 
her chickens, cows and unweaned calves, while 
her eldest daughter, a tall, slender, sweet-faced 
girl of fifteen, assisted by a younger sister, was 
washing up the supper dishes. Several 
smaller children were playing about the yard. 
Half a dozen lean fox hounds lolled on the porch 
or nosed about among the pots and kettles on 
the kitchen floor. 

Whitfield was a genuine East Kentuckian type 
—tall, raw-boned and muscular, his eyes steely 
blue and his high, receding forehead surmounted 
by a shock of iron gray hair. A long, black, 
drooping mustache adorned his upper lip, lending 
his none-too-handsome face a sinister expression. 
Although about fifty years of age he was still 
erect and vigorous. His ancestors for several 
generations back had lived and died amid the 


THE WHITFIELDS 


15 


eternal hills surrounding their simple homes, till¬ 
ing the stony land along the creeks and in the 
valleys; rearing, and somehow managing to feed, 
large families of sturdy boys and girls, who in 
their turn repeated the process of living much as 
their fathers and mothers before them had done. 

The Whitfield family was of the better class, 
law abiding and peaceable, avoiding the brawls, 
feuds and illicit liquor traffic which for years had 
involved their neighbors in much bloodshed and 
unhappiness. 

Mrs. Whitfield was several years younger than 
her husband, somewhat inclined to corpulency, 
but of pleasing appearance and manner; soft 
spoken, intelligent, and like her husband, native 
born. Her brown hair was beautifully abundant, 
and inclined to curl around a plump face in which 
were set eyes that smiled always, serenely, quiet¬ 
ly. Like all mountain people, she had been reared 
amid toil and hardship, sometimes lending a hand 
to clear the land and plant and harvest the crops. 
She kept her home and children in much better 
order than most of the mothers and housekeep¬ 
ers in the community, and maintained neighborly 
relations with the people of the whole country¬ 
side. Sickness and death enlisted her sym¬ 
pathies and services wherever and whenever 
needed; old and young affectionately called her 


16 


MATOAKA 


“Ma” because of her motherly instincts and all- 
embracing friendliness. She was a faithful at¬ 
tendant at the little church where the itinerant 
preacher occasionally conducted services, and her 
home was always open to him and to other way¬ 
farers who might pass her door. 

Alonzo Whitfield had inherited about five hun¬ 
dred acres of wild mountain land from his father, 
which, because of its distance from the railroad, 
had little present, but great potential value. Coal 
had not yet been discovered on his holdings, but 
as it was known to exist not many miles away, 
many believed it would eventually be found. The 
natives had not troubled to investigate the pos¬ 
sible stores of mineral wealth which might be 
locked beneath the soil over which they toiled 
and hunted year after year. They were satis¬ 
fied with the world as they found it and content 
to follow the well-beaten paths of their fore¬ 
fathers. 

Whitfield’s armchair reveries were abruptly 
and somewhat violently broken in upon by a 
tremendous clatter of horse’s hoofs coming up 
the road from the direction of the village, which 
lay a few miles west of his farm. The clatter 
of hoofs was answered by an even louder com¬ 
motion made by the hounds and the children as 
they ran helter skelter, barking and shrieking, 



THE WHITFIELDS 


17 


toward the gate, to greet the rider as he drew 
rein, and swinging himself lightly from his horse, 
approached the house. He paused occasionally 
to caress the capering dogs or chase the scam¬ 
pering children, all of whom appeared delighted 
at his coming. 

The newcomer was the Whitfields’ eldest son, 
a husky, rollicking youngster of seventeen or 
eighteen years, whose chief joys in life were 
fishing, hunting ’possums and coons, or spending 
the nights on the hills with his trained pack of 
hounds, listening to the music of their harmo¬ 
nious voices as they pursued their quarry over 
the mountains. He bore the unusual name of 
Stony Jack, a contraction of the original one 
given him, Stonewall Jackson. 

On the stormy February night of his birth, his 
father had remained awake all night in front of 
the blazing log fire on the hearth, poring over 
the pages of a tattered old school history in 
search of a name for so important a personage 
as the new arrival. Lighting upon the story of 
Stonewall Jackson’s immortal stand at Bull Run, 
Alonzo seized upon the name for his son,—that 
is, if the baby should prove to be a boy. Great 
was his delight when the doctor announced the 
safe arrival of a male heir to the Whitfield name 
and estate. Slipping awkwardly intb the room 


18 


MATOAKA 


where his young hopeful was testing out his 
newly discovered lungs, Alonzo announced to the 
happy mother the historic name selected for her 
son. 

“Aw, ’Lonzo,” she protested, “don’t call him 
that hard name. Why, when I want to give him 
a pet name it will have to be Stony Jack, and 
that’s awful. There’s nothing else to make out 
of it.” 

But Alonzo was inflexible in his determination 
to honor the hero of the South, as well as his 
own family, and the child was christened Stone¬ 
wall Jackson Whitfield—later, as his mother had 
predicted, his name was reduced to Stony Jack. 

When the second child appeared on the scene, 
Alonzo got out his old history once more, and 
after diligent search, came upon the original 
name of Pocahontas, the Indian maid who figured 
so prominently in the early history of Virginia. 
So the first daughter born to the Whitfields was 
christened Matoaka—a beautiful, musical name, 
which refused to yield itself to contraction or 
corruption. 

******** 

As Stony Jack came up to the porch he handed 
his father a paper, saying, “Here’s yer Bible, 
dad!” It was the Courier-Journal, a sheet made 
famous beyond the state lines by the brilliant 


THE WHITFIELDS 


19 


editorship of Henry Watterson, under whose ad¬ 
ministration the paper had indeed become the 
political bible of a vast number of Kentuckians. 

“I heard some good news in town today, dad,” 
said Stony Jack after his father had glanced 
through his paper. 

“Yes?” Alonzo drawled enquiringly. 

“Yep,” Stony Jack continued, “the railroad is 
cornin’ this way, sure. Dan Wheeler, he was 
down to Lexington, and heerd ’bout it. He says 
she’ll be in soon. The surveyors are workin’ 
now.” There was a pause during which the 
younger man seemed to wait for some expression 
from the older. At length he continued, “Judge 
Hull, he said this new road’s goin’ to play hell 
with this country. He said it’ll fetch in furriners 
and sharpers an’ white trash what’ll make so 
powerful much c’ot doin’s that he’ll be dinged if 
he’ll have any time fer fishin’ or fox chasin’ or 
seven-up and poker. He said he guessed he’d 
hev to resign and move furder back. The preacher 
he spoke up an’ said, ‘Judge, y° u are entirely off 
in yer judgment. You only look on the dark 
side.’ The preacher said, ‘Mebby there’ll come 
some bad people, but thar’ll come men with 
money that’ll put up saw-mills an’ work up the 
timber, an’ build good roads, an’ schools an’ 
churches, an’ open coal mines, an’ give work to 


20 


MATOAKA 


lots of people, an’ bring to the country the 
blessin’s of civilization.’ Everybody cheered what 
the preacher said, but Judge Hull, he said, ‘You 
all jest wait an’ see, jest wait an’ see!’ Dad, 
mebby they might find coal on yer land, an’ then 
me an’ Matoaka kin go to school, when yer rich.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t that be grand,” cried Matoaka, 
who had joined them in time to hear her brother’s 
last remarks. “Stony Jack, why don’t you go out 
and hunt for coal?” 

The brother and sister had completed the 
meager course of study offered in the little un¬ 
graded school near their home, and, encouraged 
by their teachers and the preacher, were ambi¬ 
tious to go to college—an ambition that seemed 
doubtful of realization. Alonzo Whitfield and 
Ma did not share the high aims of their children. 
Neither had received much formal instruction and 
they had but little appreciation of the value or 
pleasures of an education. Alonzo, consequently, 
smiled indulgently upon the excited Stony Jack 
and Matoaka, but took little real interest in the 
news of the proposed railroad. 

But long after the rest of the family had retired 
to rest, the two young people sat on the porch, 
enlarging upon their mutual aspirations, building 
fanciful castles in the air, and planning what 
they would do when the marvelous dreams came 


THE WHITFIELDS 


21 


true. Like spiders in the night, they set about 
creating filmy, shadowy, flimsy, beautiful things 
that would crumble at the first contact with 
reality, but with the optimism of youth they 
found immense pleasure in dreaming. 


II 


The Preacher 

“Here comes the preacher!” shouted one of the 
Whitfield children next morning, just as Alonzo 
and Stony Jack were starting out to plow their 
corn land. A man on horseback rode leisurely 
up to the gate, and Alonzo turned back and called 
to him, “Git down, preacher, an’ come in. ’Pears 
like yer travellin’ airly this mornin’. Come in 
an’ make yerself at home ’til dinner. Me an’ 
the boys is way behind in plowin’ ’count of so 
much rain this Spring. More rain than I ever 
seed in one Spring.” 

The man addressed as preacher remained seated 
on his horse. He was about the same age as 
Alonzo, but looked much younger. At the urgent 
request of Whitfield to dismount, he replied, “No, 
Brother Whitfield, I must go on. I have a long 
ride beyond the ridge where I am to conduct a 
funeral this evening and then hold a few preach¬ 
ing services. I just wanted to give you a word of 
warning in passing. The new railroad is coming 
soon, and with it will come speculators and cap¬ 
italists and, as Judge Hull says, sharpers. Real 
22 





THE PREACHER 


23 


estate will boom. You have some fine timber 
lands, and I believe coal, too. Don’t sell or lease 
your land without first consulting a lawyer or 
someone capable of protecting your interests.” 

“Yes,” admitted Alonzo, “Stony Jack told me 
’bout it an’ what Jedge Hull said. I sort o’ 
agree with the Jedge. We all are gittin’ on well 
enough in these parts.” 

“You don’t understand, Whitfield,” the preacher 
remonstrated earnestly. “God has filled these 
mountains with timber and coal of immense value. 
It only requires a railroad to develop our re¬ 
sources and open up markets. Following the rail¬ 
road there will come enterprising people who 
will build good roads, better schools and churches, 
and the splendid brainy boys and girls of these 
mountains will be given a better chance in life 
than their fathers ever had. I have hoped and 
prayed to see this day.” 

“Mebby yer right, preacher, mebby yer right,” 
the mountaineer answered dubiously. “I’ll sure 
take yer advice about sellin’, at any rate. I’ll 
make you my lawyer, fur I know they cain’t buy 
you like they kin some.” 

“I’m afraid,” the preacher continued earnestly, 
“that many of our people will lose through a 
failure to understand the value of their holdings, 
selling them too cheaply.” 


24 


MATOAKA 


With this parting advice, the preacher wheeled 
his horse back into the road again, and although 
Alonzo urged him to stay for dinner he declined, 
continuing on his mission of mercy. 

The preacher, by reason of his long and faith¬ 
ful service, had become a sort of oracle among 
the mountaineers. He came to them a young 
man just out of college, drawn to the mountains 
by reports of the appalling state of spiritual desti¬ 
tution existing among the people, and for a 
quarter of a century had devoted himself with 
unflagging zeal and consecration to the task 
set before him by the Master. He lived among 
the mountaineers, sharing in their poverty and 
privations and sorrows, always seeking to guide 
them aright and to cultivate in their hearts a 
desire and taste for better and more worthwhile 
things. By virtue of his high calling, he had 
ready access to the homes of all, poor and rich 
alike. He cultivated the friendship of all classes. 
After years of trial they had learned to respect 
him, trust him and love him. He was present 
in their glad hours of rejoicing, and sat among 
them in the dark hours of bereavement. He sat 
by the bedside of their loved ones as they slipped 
into the shadows cast by the wings of the angel 
of death, speaking words of hopeful cheer, or 
reading some consolatory passages from the 


THE PREACHER 


25 


volume of God’s Word. He stood by freshly made 
graves in the little family burial places on the 
hillsides, speaking the parting words over the 
sleeping forms beneath, as the final chapter in 
the book of life was concluded. 

Old and young, parents and children, called 
him “Preacher.” Not from any feeling of dis¬ 
respect or undue familiarity, but because it was 
a title which, to their simple hearts, embraced all 
the manifold offices of his calling, and was ex¬ 
pressive of their high regard for him as a man 
of God, their friend and counselor in all the most 
sacred relations of life. Nowhere else on earth is 
the relation of people and preacher more simple, 
unaffected, intimate, and mutually helpful than 
among the mountaineers. Seated by the blazing 
wood fire on the open hearth on a cold winter 
night, or under the leafy shade of the trees in 
summer, he would charm and delight the hungry 
hearts of the children, gathered in crowds about 
him, with hero stories culled from mythological 
tales, or from the Bible. Sometimes he would 
take them on imaginary journeys visiting far-off 
lands, with their strange people and stranger 
customs; to great cities, with tall buildings and 
wide streets crowded with busy throngs. He 
would sail with them along broad rivers, bordered 
with pleasant homes, fields and bustling towns; 


26 


MATOAKA 


or go aboard the great ocean steamers that plow 
the boundless sea. Sometimes he would even 
take them on flights to distant planets, far beyond 
the reach of the naked eye. The children, and 
many grown-ups, too, would sit rigid in open- 
eyed, open-mouthed wonder during the recital 
of these tales, forgetting mealtime and bedtime 
alike in their fascination. 

On one such occasion, an especially hot after¬ 
noon, while thus seated under the shady branches 
of the big oaks in the Whitfield yard, the 
preacher, after entertaining his audience with 
enchanting fairy tales, stopped suddenly and 
mopped his face, saying, “Children, let us play 
we are fairies! Just imagine that some good, 
kind fairy has come and touched each of us with 
her magic wand, and transported us to some far- 
off city and put us down in one of the beautiful 
shady parks that abound there. There are spar¬ 
kling fountains of clear, cool water, and flowers 
everywhere, and birds singing in the branches of 
the trees; and there are gaily dressed little girls 
to bring us cooling drinks and huge dishes of 
ice cream.” 

At the mention of ice cream, one small, freckle¬ 
faced urchin stood tensely erect, his eyes bulging 
with disbelief. He interrupted to demand loudly, 


THE PREACHER 


27 


“Say, preacher, whar yer goin’ to git ice on a hot 
day like this?” 

“Why, my boy,” replied the preacher, smiling 
at the youngster’s incredulous expression, “men 
have discovered how to freeze ice in the hottest 
weather. They freeze large blocks of it, blocks 
bigger than you.” 

The boy’s face assumed an expression of scorn¬ 
ful doubt; manifestly, he was experiencing a 
keen sense of loss of confidence in the integrity 
of his preacher. He turned slowly away, all the 
enthusiasm and interest gone from his face, and 
he remarked scornfully, “Aw, gwan, preacher! 
Wacher givin’ us? Yer know Gawd A’mity 
hisself couldn’t do thataway!” 


Ill 


The Young Surveyor 

A few weeks after the epoch-making news of 
the arrival of the railroad had stirred the com¬ 
munity into two rival camps of excited debaters 
who spent days in considering the comparative 
advantages and disadvantages of the enterprise, 
the surveyors gave fresh impetus to the discus¬ 
sion by moving their camp up to within a few 
miles of the town, and taking up a line of survey 
that led directly into the heart of the Big Black 
range. 

Stony Jack grew so excited when the thrill¬ 
ing news became known that his father had great 
difficulty in holding him on the farm until the 
Spring work was completed. Railroads, coal 
mining, saw-mills, colleges and money-making 
were now Stony Jack’s daily and nightly themes 
for elaborate discussion. He assumed to be quite 
an authority on all the subjects, an assumption 
to which the family good-naturedly subscribed. 

Having finished with the main part of the 
Summer’s work, the young fellow conceived the 
28 


THE YOUNG SURVEYOR 


29 


idea that the surveyors needed his services to 
hurry their good work along, and gave his 
father no rest until he secured permission to visit 
the camp and investigate the matter for himself. 
To his unbounded delight he found that the sur¬ 
veyors had need of a strong, active boy or man 
to carry chain and drive stakes, one familiar with 
the country preferred. Stony Jack soon con¬ 
vinced them that he was the only young man in 
the whole region who could perform these duties 
to their complete satisfaction, and his enthusiasm, 
knowledge of the country, and willingness to 
work, and work hard, favorably impressed the 
chief engineer. So Stony Jack unexpectedly 
found himself actively engaged in pioneering the 
first railroad into his country. 

His promotion to so important a position made 
him fairly dizzy, and excited the envy of all the 
young men of his acquaintance. At the same 
time he became an object of admiration and espe¬ 
cial attention among the girls of the neighbor¬ 
hood and surrounding mountainside, for the news 
of his achievement had spread to other villages 
in the vicinity. 

He went to work with a hearty good will, con¬ 
fident that he had placed his foot on the first 
round of the ladder of success—a ladder that, to 
his boyish fancy, mounting heavenward like 


30 


MATOAKA 


Jack’s beanstalk, must inevitably lead to fame 
and fortune. He was charmed with his new life 
and associates. It was his first intimate contact 
with educated men from the lowlands. At first 
he regarded them with feelings of awe, as super¬ 
men, but shortly discovered that they were only 
ordinary mortals having the advantages of travel, 
culture and refinement. This discovery increased 
his zeal to acquire these advantages for himself. 
As the keen mind of Stony Jack grasped more of 
the intricate details of surveying, he resolved 
that he, too, would some day be a civil engineer, 
although he was uncertain of the exact meaning 
of the term. 

The surveyors took a great fancy to Stony 
Jack. His never-failing good humor, cheerful¬ 
ness and enthusiasm for his work excited their 
admiration. At night around the campfire, he 
would entertain them with his droll humor and 
interesting stories of mountain life—of ’possum 
and coon hunting, fox chasing, feuds, and moon¬ 
shiners’ wild ways. He promised them some real 
and thrilling sport later in the season: an extraor¬ 
dinary fox chase by expert fox chasers. As only 
two of the surveyors had ever indulged in the 
sport, they all looked forward to the occasion 
with high expectations. 

The route of the surveyors led directly through 


THE YOUNG SURVEYOR 


31 


the Whitfield neighborhood, and their camp was 
later moved to a fine location on Alonzo’s farm. 
This arrangement materially increased the Whit¬ 
field income through the sale of fresh vegetables, 
milk, butter, and an occasional chicken for Sun¬ 
day dinner. Stony Jack refused to quit the camp 
for the comforts of home. He would stick to his 
newly acquired friends and share the hardships 
and responsibilities of the great public enterprise 
in which they were engaged. He had become an 
essential adjunct to the undertaking, and could 
not be spared from the evening entertainment 
around the campfires. 

Working one day in a remote corner of the 
Whitfield farm where a small creek ran down the 
mountainside, Stony Jack found the ground 
unusually hard for driving stakes. Rock appeared 
to lie near the surface over a wide area. In tear¬ 
ing away some obstructions in his way, he slipped 
and dislodged a great mass of dirt, exposing 
what seemed to be a ledge of black rock. 

“Coal!” shouted one of the party who was 
familiar with mining, and all fell to digging and 
scraping, uncovering an eight-foot vein of the 
finest quality of bituminous coal. Surveying was 
suspended for the day. Excitement ran high 
among the surveyors as they fell to speculating 


32 


MATOAKA 


on the effect the discovery would have on the 
future of the country and the road building. 

Stony Jack broke a speed record reaching home 
to spread the news. “Spread” is used advisedly, 
for spread it he did, with shouting and leaping, 
throwing his hat in the air, and working his 
arms like a windmill in a gale. 

The family, observing his frantic movements 
from afar off, concluded that he had run into a 
yellow jacket’s nest and tried to shut him out 
of the house. It was some time before he could 
calm himself sufficiently to talk coherently, and 
when at last he was able to convey the good 
news to them, Matoaka and all the little Whit¬ 
fields joined in their brother’s war dance. The 
half dozen hounds, thinking a fox chase was pro¬ 
posed, set up a loud baying, and pandemonium 
reigned for some time. 

The news of the find spread rapidly, and as 
other discoveries were made, speculators and 
prospectors arrived in flocks and droves. The 
fears of the preacher were realized. Many land 
owners sold for a fraction of the real value of 
their holdings, though to their inexperienced 
minds the amounts they received were fabulous 
sums. Others leased on ridiculously low royalties. 
But Whitfield and a few others kept their heads 
and farms until granted a fair proposition. 


THE YOUNG SURVEYOR 


33 


The surveyors assured Stony Jack that his 
father would now become a rich man, and he 
could realize his ambition for an education with¬ 
out driving stakes or carrying chain. But he 
declared it to be his purpose to hold his position 
on the surveying squad at least until school 
opened. 

Stony Jack and Matoaka lived among the 
clouds. The sudden and unexpected discovery 
had effected a complete change in their scheme 
of life. To their fevered imaginations, one of the 
preacher's fairy tales had come true before their 
very eyes. A good fairy had, with her magic 
wand, touched the dark, gloomy, rocky hills be¬ 
hind their house, and changed everything into 
gold. 

When the preacher rode their way they over¬ 
whelmed him with questions and rapid-fire talk 
about coal, schools, books, places and how to 
get there. He was wonderfully pleased over the 
cheering news. He had for a long time cherished 
the hope that Stony Jack and Matoaka might 
have a chance for a more advanced education 
than their mountain school offered. They seemed 
to him superior in many ways to the majority 
of their associates, and he longed for the oppor¬ 
tunity to prove his judgment correct. 

For many days the brother and sister discussed 


34 


MATOAKA 


the merits of various schools suitable for students 
of their attainments, and at last decided on one 
located in the heart of the great Appalachian 
range not many miles from their home, at a point 
where three great states are joined together. A 
school founded by patriotic, liberty-loving men 
and women, who sought to perpetuate in the 
hearts of their countrymen the true spirit of 
Americanism as exemplified in the life, character 
and utterances of that Kentuckian of Kentuck¬ 
ians, that American of Americans, who fared forth 
from a rude log cabin in a wilderness and carved 
for himself a commanding niche in the hall of 
the world’s immortals. By teaching the youth of 
America the honesty, loyalty, and devotion to 
lofty ideals of Abraham Lincoln, the promoters 
and patrons of this school hoped to erect a living 
memorial to the illustrious martyr which would 
outlast marble and granite. And while this living 
memorial survived, “Government of the people, 
by the people, and for the people shall not perish 
from the earth.” 


IV 


The Fox Chase 

A few days before going away to school Stony 
Jack resigned his responsible position on the 
surveying squad in order to plan for the great 
fox chase he had promised his co-laborers. This 
fox chase was to be no ordinary event—no scrub 
race run by common hounds—but a magnificent 
contest of speed and endurance by thoroughbreds, 
directed by old masters of the sport. It was the 
young mountaineer’s best and final entertain¬ 
ment for his friends before separating from them, 
perhaps forever. 

The preacher, a dear lover of the sport, en¬ 
tered enthusiastically into the spirit of the occa¬ 
sion and gave his best efforts in aiding Stony 
Jack to make the chase one never to be forgot¬ 
ten; to set, if possible, a standard that would 
never be surpassed. 

One of the surveyors, Shelby Gibson, was, like 
Stony Jack, passionately fond of fox hunting, and 
had brought along a high-bred, well-trained young 
dog named Lightning to add to the pack. The 

35 


36 


MATOAKA 


two sportsmen were continually discussing the 
relative merits of their dogs and boasting of their 
accomplishments. 

“My old dog, Bob, kin beat yourn any day!” 
declared Stony Jack with emphasis. “He always 
comes in ahead in every race.” 

“Well, when Lightning runs with him, Bob 
will not even be in sight at the finish,” boasted 
Gibson. “That will be one time when the rule 
will be reversed.” 

“Aw, yer old dog may be fast,” said Stony 
Jack, “but chasin’ foxes is a game where speed 
ain’t the whole thing. Bob he knows the science 
o’ readin’ a fox’s mind an’ that helps a heap.” 

“Well, I’ll bet my dog against yours,” declared 
Gibson, “that Bob don’t come in ahead of Light¬ 
ning, science or no science. Speed and stamina 
are the things that count in a race.” 

“Not every time,” demurred Stony Jack, “an’ 
I don’t want to take yer dog fur nothing.” 

“You’re afraid!” said Gibson, with a sneer. 
“You don’t dare put your scrub against a thor¬ 
oughbred.” 

“No, I ain’t afraid,” retorted Stony Jack calmly, 
“an’ ef you want to give yer dog away, I’ll bet 
you. You’ll be feelin’ sore, though, when you 
kiss Lightning good-bye, for he’s goin’ to be my 
dog.” 


THE FOX CHASE 


37 


“Don’t worry about me, boy,” said Gibson 
confidently. “You will be doing the kissing act 
and grieving over a lost dog, though he isn’t 
much dog to grieve over.” 

“I’ll make you take that back, Gibson, before 
the race ends,” said Stony Jack, and there was a 
cold ring in his voice. “I didn’t want to bet, nor 
take yer dog, but now I’ll do both.” 

Tremendous interest was aroused in the neigh¬ 
borhood over the impending fox chase and many 
side bets were made. It was conspicuous that all 
the mountaineers were keen to bet on old Bob, 
though they admitted that Lightning might be 
the faster of the two dogs. “But,” they said, 
“old Bob has a curious way of always gittin’ 
ahead on the home stretch.” 

To make the race more interesting, several 
other men were invited to bring their dogs and 
enter them as pacemakers for the champions. 
This was to be a record-breaking contest between 
the lowlands and the highlands—between the 
aristocracy of the bluegrass region and the “hill 
billies” of the coal field. The stakes were high, 
that which a fox hunter values next to his life— 
his favorite dog. 

The night set for the chase was ideal. Follow¬ 
ing a light shower, the air was crisp with the 
first touches of approaching frost. A dozen men 


38 


MATOAKA 


and boys with as many dogs, all keyed up to 
the highest pitch of tension over the prospects 
of a night of unusual sport and exciting adven¬ 
ture, made their way toward the scene of the 
entertainment. 

All entered gaily into the hilarity of the event; 
all except one member of the surveying party, a 
short, fat man, unaccustomed to mountain climb¬ 
ing and inexperienced in the ways of the forest. 
He found great difficulty in keeping up with the 
swift pace of the mountaineers, clambering over 
fallen trees, jumping ravines, and extricating 
himself from entangling briars and treacherous 
grapevines that had an ugly way of catching and 
tripping him. His clumsy inexperience made him 
the object of a great deal of good-natured raillery 
from his comrades. 

It was nearly midnight before the dogs struck 
a warm trail, and then they raised a cunning old 
red fox that on many former occasions had given 
a good account of himself. The entertainment, 
with a prelude of tremendous noise, opened sud¬ 
denly as the entire pack of hounds in full cry 
gave chase. 

Lightning at once took the lead, and his clear, 
musical voice could be heard above all the others, 
as it rang out like a bell on the still night air. 
Old Bob seemed to have made a bad start and 


THE FOX CHASE 


39 


after a few loud yelps from the rear of the pack, 
subsided into a strange silence. 

“Now,” cried Shelby Gibson triumphantly, “I 
reckon you see who has the fastest dog. Why 
your dog isn’t even capable of making any noise.” 

“I ain’t bettin’ on the noise Bob makes,” re¬ 
plied Stony Jack. “I’m bettin’ he comes in ahead 
at the finish.” 

“Well, the fastest dog will be the one ahead at 
the finish,” exclaimed Gibson gleefully, “and just 
listen to Lightning! He’s leading by a mile!” 

“I’m bettin’ on the finish,” repeated Stony 
Jack quietly. 

“Hear the kid rave,” jeered Gibson. “Bob 
will have to outrun Lightning to beat him at the 
finish, won’t he?” 

“Mebby he will an’ mebby he won’t,” said 
Stony Jack coolly. “That’s Bob’s lookout. I 
let him manage his own races!” 

“All right, sonny, the leading dog at the finish 
is the winner and his owner takes the other dog,” 
said Gibson, and the expression on his face left 
no doubt as to the dog he thought would win. 

“Sure thing!” said Stony Jack, evidently undis¬ 
turbed by the apparent poor showing made by 
Bob. 

The old fox had led the pack in a wide swing 
to the south, until the mingled cries of the hounds 


40 


MATOAKA 


grew faint as a whispered echo; then, as the fox 
doubled back, the sound swelled gradually to a 
higher key, the voices blending in perfect unison 
like a mighty choral under the guiding hand of a 
trained director. 

“Hear that heavenly music!” shouted the 
frenzied Gibson to the short fat man, as he 
caught the clear silvery tones of Lightning’s 
hunting cry still leading the chase. The fat man 
was seated on a log puffing contentedly at his 
long pipe stem and apparently did not hear 
Gibson’s exclamation. 

“Don’t you hear it?” yelled Gibson, slapping 
him on the back. 

“Hear what?” inquired the other indifferently. 

“Hear that heavenly music!” 

The fat man took his pipe from his mouth, 
listening intently for a moment, and then drawled 
contemptuously, “Naw, I can’t hear anything for 
those damned hounds.” A shout from the crowd 
greeted this remark, and Gibson threw up his 
hands in despair and walked away. 

Stony Jack was standing quietly enjoying the 
music of one of nature’s magnificent concerts, so 
absorbed that he appeared oblivious to the fact 
that Bob seemed to be suffering a complete defeat 
in the race. 

“Do you give it up now?” inquired Gibson, 





THE FOX CHASE 


41 


dancing about in great glee. “It’s daylight and 
the fox will soon have to surrender. Lightning 
is still ahead; where do you reckon Bob is? I 
bet he has gone home ashamed of himself.” 

“We ain’t at the finish yet,” replied Stony Jack 
placidly. 

Morning had come and the eastern peaks and 
ridges were tinged with the brightening glow of 
the rising sun. The fox was coming back up 
the wide valley now, evidently heading for a gap 
in the ridge about a quarter of a mile from the 
point where the hunters stood, and quite near the 
starting point of the chase. 

Gibson was still dancing and shouting to his 
dog as the hounds drew nearer. “Prepare to 
weep,” he called to Stony Jack, “and get ready 
to kiss old Bob good-bye; that is, if you can find 
him.” 

The dogs were racing swiftly up the valley in 
full cry. As they dashed across an open piece of 
country their cry suddenly ceased. 

“Lookee yonder!” exclaimed Stony Jack, point¬ 
ing toward the valley. The crowd stood speech¬ 
less in amazement and Gibson’s dancing instantly 
ceased. An immense golden eagle with a wing- 
spread of not less than ten feet came swooping 
down from the top of a tall pine tree. As he 
arose slowly from the ground, he held in the 


42 


MATOAKA 


vice-like clutches of his powerful talons a 
struggling, howling dog. Just then a shot rang 
out on the other side of the valley and the eagle 
was observed to hesitate in its flight, hover in 
midair for a moment and then drift slowly toward 
the ground. A squirrel hunter had fired the 
lucky shot. 

“See who’s cornin’ here!” shouted Stony Jack, 
pointing toward the gap in the ridge. Everyone 
looked in the direction he indicated, and the 
astonished Gibson saw the tired fox coming 
toward them with old Bob running close on his 
heels in full cry, apparently as fresh and fleet 
as when he started. 

“Well, I’m damned!” muttered Gibson in wide- 
eyed astonishment. “Is that a ghost or a real 
dog?” 

Lightning was still clutched in the death grip 
of the eagle, but his owner lost no time in reach¬ 
ing the spot where bird and dog had fallen 
together and released him, badly but not fatally 
torn by the sharp talons. 

“Come and get your dog, Stony Jack,” called 
Gibson, patting the injured dog affectionately. 
“I guess you’ve won!” 

“Nope, he’s yourn,” said Stony Jack. “I don’t 
want him. He didn’t have no show agin old 
Bob, an’ I won’t rob you.” 


THE FOX CHASE 


43 


“He had a good chance until that eagle inter¬ 
fered/’ averred Gibson confidently. “He was 
winning easily.” 

“Nope, yer all wrong, Mr. Gibson,” insisted 
Stony Jack. “He never had a show. You see, 
Bob knows that fox an’ all his funny tricks. Bob 
knowed the fox would come back through that 
gap when he got tired playin’ with the hounds. 
So when he got the chase started, Bob went up 
in the gap an’ laid down on a rock an’ listened 
to the music ’til old red came back, an’ then Bob 
joined in the fun. There ain’t no dog on earth 
kin beat Bob cornin’ in on the home stretch, an’ 
that’s what I always bet on!” 

“Well, I’m damned,” said Gibson in disgust. 
“Let’s go home!” 


V 


School Days 

Excitement was at fever heat in the Whitfield 
home for many days succeeding the great coal 
discovery on the farm. In consequence of it 
Stony Jack and Matoaka were really going away 
to school; going out into that great, wonderful, 
mysterious world of which they had heard so 
much and seen so little. Alonzo and his good- 
natured wife viewed the whole matter with quiet 
satisfaction—glad of the opportunity afforded 
them of gratifying the wishes of their children. 
As far as they were personally concerned, the dis¬ 
covery made but little difference. They would 
continue to travel in the narrow groove in which 
they had traveled all their lives, and in which 
they were content. 

The days and nights preceding the high day 
of the young people’s departure were crowded 
with bustling and excited preparations for the 
wonderful journey, a journey that would lead, 
they hoped, to the realization of their long- 
cherished ambitions. Matoaka and Stony Jack 

44 


SCHOOL DAYS 


45 


were going to have more good clothes and books 
—and real trunks from the city, in which to store 
their treasures—than their wildest fancies had 
ever anticipated. There were many sleepless 
nights and busy days of talking and packing—a 
work supervised by Ma Whitfield, who was care¬ 
ful to see that nothing was forgotten that might 
be useful to the children in their new home; a 
home that to her maternal heart seemed strange 
and very far away. At length the all-important 
morning broke clear and serene, an omen of good 
fortune. 

Feeling unequal to the task, their father pre¬ 
vailed upon the preacher to make the journey 
with them and arrange for the children’s board 
and tuition at the college whither they were 
bound. This was an entirely agreeable arrange¬ 
ment to the preacher, for he was anxious to visit 
the college and meet once more friends of former 
days. Especially did he wish to greet his old 
friend Dean Fordney, whose long and faithful 
services in the institution had proved a bene¬ 
diction upon the heads and homesick hearts of 
many new students, lonely and frightened amid 
strange surroundings that were so utterly dif¬ 
ferent from the familiar ones they had left for the 
first time in life. 

A couple of boys who lived in the neighbor- 


46 


MATOAKA 


hood, aroused by Stony Jack’s enthusiasm and 
urging, had decided to accompany the party on 
the journey, and they all set out together in high 
spirits. 

As the nearest railway station was, under 
favorable circumstances, a good day’s drive dis¬ 
tant, an early start was made in order that the 
town might be reached by nightfall. The trip was 
made in a heavy road-wagon drawn by a pair 
of strong mules over an exceedingly rough road, 
cut by deep gullies and full of large rocks. The 
going was slow and tedious, and the boys walked 
much of the way, Matoaka joining them occa¬ 
sionally to rest her cramped limbs. 

The season was early Autumn, the most delight¬ 
ful of all the year in the mountain regions. The 
sky was clear, save for a light haze caused by 
distant forest fires. The gum and maple trees 
were exchanging their Summer’s green for the 
many-colored draperies they assume at the ap¬ 
proach of frost, and all the mountainsides were 
gaily decked in a rich profusion of red and purple 
and gold—as if nature were adorning herself in 
holiday garb in honor of the young travelers. 

Noonday lunch was eaten by the roadside, 
where a spring of clear, cold water gushed from 
beneath a huge, rocky cliff and went dancing and 
singing toward the river. The mules were watered 


SCHOOL DAYS 


47 


and fed, and while they all rested, the preacher, 
at the request of Stony Jack, told them interest¬ 
ing stories of pioneer days, when the early settlers 
fought their way through the trackless forests, 
opposed by savages and wild beasts. He related 
how Daniel Boone had traversed the country, 
long before other white men had dared to venture 
so far from the settlements and how, at a point 
not many miles away, he had led a war party 
against the Indians in a fierce battle, in which 
several on both sides, including a son of Boone, 
were slain. 

Matoaka was in her happiest mood, enjoying 
the sensations of traveling through an entirely 
new and wonderful country, and gathering wild 
flowers and chinquepins by the way. The boys 
chased squirrels and chipmunks, and threw rocks 
until their arms ached. 

Late in the evening the lights of the town 
gleamed through the gathering darkness and the 
weary pilgrims made their way to the only hotel 
in the place and secured lodgings for the night— 
the first the youngsters had ever spent in a 
public hostelry. It was a novel and thrilling 
experience. They wrote their names across the 
page of the large book on the clerk’s desk, ate 
in the immense dining-room, where they were 
served by the first colored waiters they had ever 


48 


MATOAKA 


seen, and rode up two floors in an elevator with 
a consequent strange sensation in the pit of their 
stomachs. They were beginning to feel like 
regular globe-trotters. 

After a restful night and bountiful breakfast, 
the preacher took his charges on a sight-seeing 
tour of the one important street of the city. This 
offered new wonders to their bulging eyes. They 
viewed show-windows full of beautiful things, 
and entered a few of the larger stores. But the 
one bewildering vision that held them enthralled 
was the dazzling ten cent store. The preacher 
had great difficulty in preventing them from 
spending all their money, and still more trouble 
in getting them out of the store in time to catch 
the train. As it was, after inspecting and pricing 
everything displayed, notwithstanding the price 
tags conspicuously displayed on the counters, 
they were all, including the preacher, laden down 
with small, oddly shaped packages. Matoaka 
was in raptures over a wrist-watch, a bracelet, a 
string of beads, a powder puff and a bottle of 
perfume—all of which she purchased for the sum 
of fifty cents. The next time she was to make 
this same journey she was wiser, but never again 
was she so supremely happy. 

The train carried them over the remaining 
miles which intervened between them and the end 


SCHOOL DAYS 


49 


of their journey, supplying a series of thrills that 
kept them in constant agitation, varying from 
fright to amusement. At last, dashing out of a 
long tunnel into a beautiful valley, the school 
buildings which were their objective appeared 
among the Norway maples that shaded the beau¬ 
tiful, broad campus. 

Weeks, months and years followed that event¬ 
ful day when Matoaka and Stony Jack found 
themselves entering upon a college career. Time 
sped by on swift-flying wings, marked off with 
vacations spent in their home. The brother and 
sister no longer needed the guiding hand of the 
preacher in their journey, and the old mule team 
was exchanged for a seat in a coach on the new 
railroad which ran almost to their home. Almost 
before they could realize the fact, four happy, 
glorious years had sped by, the happiest years of 
their young lives. They were diligent, ambitious 
students, winning high credits in their studies and 
praise from their teachers. They made many 
delightful acquaintances, and formed friendships 
destined to endure through all the years. 

Now they are saying good-bye to their Alma 
Mater, breaking the bond of pleasant associations 
and delightful companionship, closing the door 
upon the brightest chapter in life's progress: the 


50 


MATOAKA 


chapter of their school days. They are returning 
home, busy with new plans for a course at the 
State University. Stony Jack had learned the 
meaning of the words ‘Civil Engineer/ and was 
more determined than ever to acquire that title 
for his own. Matoaka is inspired with a purpose 
to fit herself for teaching, intending to return 
to her own people and bring to them the advan¬ 
tages of her college training. 

The two young people lived in a dreamland, 
building splendid air castles. Alas, to awake 
from dreaming to face the stern realities of this 
prosaic, difficult life! But the dreams were help¬ 
ful in leading them on to their destinies. 


VI 


The Street Meeting 

The arrival of the new railroad fulfilled the 
prophecies of both Judge Hull and the preacher. 
The tide of immigration flowed heavily in. Pros¬ 
pectors, capitalists, speculators, adventurers, la¬ 
borers, criminals, Americans and foreigners, all 
lured by the vision of material wealth, flocked 
into the newly opened country. Immense opera¬ 
tions, both in timber and coal, were undertaken. 
Densely populated camps sprang up overnight, 
and money flowed freely. 

The easy-going natives looked on in bewilder¬ 
ment and no little disgust at the changed order 
of things. A few were quick to grasp the oppor¬ 
tunities and grew rich. The civil authorities 
found their duties many times multiplied, and 
Judge Hull, with much profane grumbling, was 
frequently forced to forego a pleasant fishing 
expedition or an exciting fox chase, while his 
quiet games of seven-up at the new hotel were 
definitely joys of the past. The preacher, at the 
same time, was overwhelmed with new respon- 
51 


52 


MATOAKA 


sibilities. His soul was vexed with the spiritual 
destitution which he saw all about him, and the 
scarcity of workers to help him in relieving condi¬ 
tions. As he had foreseen, the country was mak¬ 
ing rapid strides in business development, but 
retrograding in spiritual activities. The lust for 
worldly gain had blinded the eyes of men to the 
source of true riches. 

The preacher made frequent visits to the vari¬ 
ous camps in his endeavors to do the work of his 
Master. Entering one of the largest of these 
on his benevolent mission and finding no suitable 
place for holding services, he made use of an 
abandoned shed which had formerly been occu¬ 
pied by a saw-mill. The camp abounded in 
gambling dens under the guise of pool-rooms; 
soft drink stands dispensed the hardest of hard 
liquors; and places of infamy attracted multitudes 
who reveled in vice and iniquity. Finding that 
he was making no headway against the hosts of 
Satan, the preacher decided by a daring piece of 
strategy to carry the war into the enemy’s strong¬ 
hold. He would hold a street meeting on Sun¬ 
day afternoon while hundreds of men were con¬ 
gregated in idleness on the Lord’s Day. 

He selected a position in front of the most 
iniquitous establishment on the one long street, 
run by one Sid Lee, the most notorious bad man 


THE STREET MEETING 


53 


in the entire region. Sid Lee held the record 
for the community with eight notches on his 
gun-stock, and he was obviously eager to add 
more before closing his hectic career. The 
preacher mounted a wagon standing before Lee’s 
place and prepared to hurl thunderbolts of gospel 
dynamite into the serried ranks of Satan. 

Sid Lee walked up with a gun strapped to each 
hip, his features suffused with his most friendly 
smile. In his mildest tone he drawled inquiringly, 
“Preacher, what yer all a fixin’ to pull off hyar 
today?” 

The preacher, with considerable trepidation, 
as blandly replied, “We are going to hold some 
religious services, but I fear this noisy crowd will 
be too much for us.” 

“Wal, now,” Lee replied calmly, “we sure do 
need some preachin’ in this ongodly place, and 
ef yer want to do the preachin’ act, by cracky, 
I’ll see that the boys give yer a square deal an’ 
keep on thar Sunday manners. An’ say, preacher,” 
he continued, “would yer like ter hev somebody 
hit the tunes fer yer an’ lead the singin’?” 

The preacher, not especially strong in the mu¬ 
sical line himself, readily assented. Lee rushed 
into his building, reappearing almost immediately 
at the front windows upstairs. He flung open the 
sash, and led forward three or four flashily 


54 


MATOAKA 


dressed and highly painted women, shouting, “Go 
to it, preacher, the choir is all tuned up an' 
ready.” 

Here was an awkward surprise for the preacher. 
He had not anticipated just this turn of events, 
but before he had time to make objections, Sid 
Lee was at his side in the wagon, bawling out 
to the restless crowd which was milling about, 
talking and laughing boisterously, “Hey, yer fel¬ 
lers! Pay Mention now! We’re goin’ ter hev 
preachin’.” 

A hush fell on the crowd at the sound of Lee’s 
voice. Everyone expected some new deviltry, 
and every man reached for his gun. 

“Yer all pay ’tention to ther preacher now,” 
Sid continued. “Mebby he kin land some uv yer 
in heaven! The first galoot that butts in is going 
to land in ther horsepittal, er in the place the 
preacher tells about, tother side uv heaven!” 
With a nod to the preacher, Lee stepped out of 
the wagon, and the former, feeling that it was 
not a good time to draw the lines too closely 
between the sheep and the goats, announced a 
hymn and began the services. 

The men caught the spirit of the occasion 
created by the ill-assorted combination of wor¬ 
shipers, and entered with enthusiasm into the 
singing, though in many keys and tempos. They 


THE STREET MEETING 


55 


were no doubt spurred on by the pugnacious 
air of Sid Gee, who walked among them with 
the authority of a Puritan elder, none disputing 
his right to command. Before the sermon was 
ended, glistening eyes gazed out of many sin- 
hardened faces, as their owners had their 
thoughts carried back to the days before their 
wayward feet had strayed so far from the better 
way. 

At the conclusion of a very quiet and helpful 
meeting, Sid Lee walked away, with the man¬ 
ner of a gentleman who had held a high and 
responsible place in an important public function. 

Three weeks later, the preacher was called 
back to the camp to hold funeral services over 
the remains of Sid # Lee. One of the women in 
the improvised choir had cut a notch in her 
gun-stock. As the preacher gazed into the calm 
face of the dead “bad man,” he was struck with 
the truth that the worst of us has a streak of 
good mixed with the bad—a streak that links 
our sinful race to a common ancestry. 


VII 


War Clouds 

Stony Jack and Matoaka returned from col¬ 
lege at a time when the sky of the whole world 
was darkened by lowering war clouds surcharged 
with the lightnings of destruction. For two years 
Europe had been rocked by the earthquake shock 
of contending hosts. America’s Ship of State 
was being slowly, but surely, drawn into the 
bloody whirlpool of strife, despite the efforts of 
her pilot to steer her into the calm waters of 
peace. 

Immediately on their return, the young people 
spent some days visiting former friends and 
familiar scenes, riding horseback over the moun¬ 
tains. War and the certainty of America’s en¬ 
trance into the conflict were the chief topics of 
conversation everywhere. The war spirit was 
daily rising in intensity, and discussion became 
more voluble and heated. Several of Stony 
Jack’s friends and kinsmen had already enlisted 
in the regular army or in the state guards, ex- 
56 



WAR CLOUDS 


57 


pecting soon to see active service—an expecta¬ 
tion that was later fully realized. 

Stony Jack became restless and moody as 
news came back from the army camps where his 
friends were drilling and reporting great times. 
His young blood was stirred to feverish activity, 
and he was growing more restive as each day 
saw the tide of war rise higher and higher. 

One day at dinner when the preacher was 
present, Stony Jack abruptly announced his in¬ 
tention of enlisting. For a long time no one 
spoke. His mother looked at him with sudden, 
pained surprise, but made no comment. His de¬ 
cision seemed foreordained. Matoaka alone made 
protest. “Don’t go, Stony Jack!” she cried, with a 
catch in her voice. “Think of all our plans for 
going to the University next year; of your ambi¬ 
tion to be a civil engineer. Don’t throw away 
all your fine chances by enlisting in the army. 
War may not come anyway, and then, if it 
shouldn’t come, you would be tied down for 
years to an old army camp.” 

“No,” insisted Stony Jack, stubbornly, “I’ll 
have to go later under the draft, and I’d rather 
go now while I can still choose my branch of 
service. I’ll join the Engineers and get a lot of 
practical experience in camp. You mustn’t worry, 
there’s no great danger in that line of service. 


58 


MATOAKA 


Our people for generations back have been loyal 
to the government, and have fought in every 
war in defense of the Flag. I’m not going to be 
the first traitor to our family traditions. Don’t you 
say I am right, preacher?” he said, addressing 
the latter. 

The preacher, thus appealed to, did not answer 
at once. He gazed appreciatively at the well- 
built, handsome, impulsive boy, alive with energy 
and high purpose. He was conscious, too, of the 
anxious eyes of Matoaka, sitting like an accused 
criminal awaiting her verdict. When he spoke it 
was with great deliberation. “Yes, my son, I do 
agree with you. This is going to be a tremendous 
conflict, which we hope will decide for all time 
some of the great problems of human rights and 
government. Life is not measured in years, but 
in achievements. Seldom does one have the 
privilege of serving so great a cause, or dying 
for such high ideals. Go, and may God bless 
you, Stony Jack!” 

Unbroken silence followed this speech. Stony 
Jack gripped the preacher’s hand, his face glow¬ 
ing. Matoaka slipped out quietly to a secluded 
corner of the orchard, where she had gone as a 
little girl with her childish griefs. 

“When do yer figur on startin’?” was the only 
comment of Alonzo Whitfield. 


WAR CLOUDS 


59 


“Tomorrow,” the boy replied promptly, and fol¬ 
lowed Matoaka to the orchard, where the two 
spent a long hour trying to reconstruct some of 
their crumbling air castles. 

The following day Stony Jack went to town 
and enlisted. A week later he was in camp with 
the Engineers, and the first real break was made 
in the family circle. Stony Jack belonged to his 
country. 

His enlistment wrought a sudden and radical 
change in his mode of life. Transferred at once 
from a quiet country home to the bustle and 
turmoil of a great cantonment, where thousands 
of raw recruits were being whipped into shape 
to face the best trained army the world had ever 
seen, he was at first utterly bewildered. But his 
quick eye and keen mind helped him to adjust 
himself to military routine, and he began to enjoy 
the new life immensely. 

He was most fortunate in his choice of service. 
The Engineering Corps was composed of a splen¬ 
did group of young Americans whom Stony Jack 
found instantly congenial. His buddie, Bruce 
Malcomson, was a fine young college chap from 
a northern state, and the two soon became in¬ 
separable comrades. 

After a few months of intensive training, orders 
were issued for preparations for immediate em- 


60 


MATOAKA 


barkation. The excitement was intense. Every¬ 
one was busy writing farewell letters home, ship¬ 
ping surplus baggage and rolling packs into the 
smallest possible compass. In an incredibly 
short time the shores of the homeland were re¬ 
ceding and the great transport, crowded with a 
great, khaki-clad host, was lost to view in the 
vast expanse of blue waters. 

Once fairly out to sea, the nights of all on 
board were passed in constant readiness for pos¬ 
sible disaster, while the days were given over to 
scanning the horizon for any sign of the treacher¬ 
ous under-sea craft of the enemy. In spite of the 
danger, the open sea made a powerful appeal to 
the imagination of Stony Jack. Gazing out upon 
the immense expanse of restless waters, he was 
reminded by contrast of his own towering moun¬ 
tains, from whose lofty peaks he had often gazed 
into the blue vault stretching away beyond his 
vision, wondering what mysteries lay therein. 

After what seemed an interminable voyage, the 
shores of France loomed out of the mist one 
morning, and the men filed quickly down the 
gang-plank and marched into camp, glad of the 
opportunity to exercise their cramped legs. The 
Engineers were in immediate demand, and were 
rushed at once to the front to assist in road 
building, preparatory to a smashing drive the 


WAR CLOUDS 


61 


British planned to make against the Hindenburg 
Line—a drive in which the tanks were to prove 
their tremendous power and value in modern 
warfare. 

******** 

Left at home, the active-minded Matoaka could 
not long continue depressed over the sudden 
shattering of her plans. She was proud of Stony 
Jack, proud of his patriotic devotion to country 
and family traditions. Their parting had been 
affecting, but free from outwardly expressed signs 
of grief. The mountaineers are a stoical people, 
due perhaps to their strict adherence to the Cal- 
vinistic doctrine of predestination, taught for a 
hundred years by a people called Hard Shell 
Baptists. This doctrine holds that all things are 
foreordained to occur as they do, and that it is 
sinful to question the wisdom of God; such is the 
foundation of their religious belief. It is told of 
one mountaineer mother that she saw five stal¬ 
wart sons caried home, slain in fuedal battles, 
and saw them laid to rest in the little family 
graveyard without shedding a tear. She was not 
callous. Her stoicism was the result of the belief 
that such things were foreordained to happen. 

Stony Jack’s letters to the home folks were full 
of interesting details of camp life, written always 
in a cheerful vein. From them Matoaka grasped 


62 


MATOAKA 


a deeper sense of the meaning of the conflict, 
and she grew impatient to have some part in its 
activities. She joined the Red Cross, and be¬ 
came deeply absorbed in knitting, rolling ban¬ 
dages and assisting in campaigns for members 
and money. Daily she might be seen riding to 
and from town on Rosewood, a powerful and 
spirited dark bay horse which was a gift to her 
from her father. She was happy in the con¬ 
sciousness that in her small way she was con¬ 
tributing to help Stony Jack carry the flag to 
victory. 

Felix Luster, a man several years Matoaka’s 
senior, held the honorable position of high sheriff 
of the county in which the Whitfields lived— 
a position he had secured largely through under¬ 
ground political wire-pulling. He was nick¬ 
named “Hell Roaring Felix” because of his bois¬ 
terous and bragging manner of speech, and since 
his wife’s divorce of him, he had posed as the 
“Sheik of the Mountains.” For some time this 
man had manifested a fondness for the company 
of the young war worker, and frequently made 
it a point to ride home with her, on the pretext 
that he was on the lookout for moonshiners in 
the wild region beyond the Whitfield farm. 

Matoaka did not relish the attentions of Felix. 
He was illiterate, rough, boisterous and not infre- 


WAR CLOUDS 


63 


quently under the influence of liquor. It was 
also hinted in many quarters that the sheriff was 
secretly in league with a powerful group of moon¬ 
shiners and bootleggers. Although frequently 
on the trail of outlaws, he made no captures. 
However, as he was a friend of her father’s and 
prominent in the affairs of the community, 
Matoaka accepted his attentions with as good 
grace as possible. 

Matoaka’s days were filled with activity and 
her nights with troubled dreams, as the news of 
great battles with their consequent heavy casual¬ 
ties was received with increasing frequency. She 
knew that Stony Jack was somewhere near the 
front—the exact location of which was shrouded 
in mystery and from which nothing ever emerged 
but wounded men and accounts of terrible 
slaughter. Of late his letters had been shorter 
and more infrequent. 

One morning the world was electrified by news 
of the great drive, and the heretofore impreg¬ 
nable line that for so long had defied the greatest 
efforts of the Allied armies, broke, and the vic¬ 
torious hosts surged through the gap. 

The Engineers were rushed forward to build 
new roads and lay out new trenches, and soon 
found themselves deep in German territory. Stony 
Jack and Bruce Malcomson were in the front 


64 


MATOAKA 


line, and when the smashing counter-attack came, 
were caught between the conflicting tides, and 
were forced to drop their tools, bring their re¬ 
volvers into action and fight their way to free¬ 
dom. The hard won territory was being slowly 
lost to the British as they were forced back, fight¬ 
ing with bulldog tenacity against increasing pres¬ 
sure. The two friends remained close together, 
fighting with cool deliberation, encouraging their 
comrades to hold fast. A huge shell burst direct¬ 
ly in front of them, tearing a great hole in the 
ground and scattering death-dealing fragments 
all about. Stony Jack crumpled up and pitched 
forward on his face, a jagged hole in his side. 
Malcomson was hurled backward several yards, 
but was not fatally hurt. He staggered on after 
his retreating comrades. 

Reaching a place of comparative safety, Mal¬ 
comson recovered somewhat from the effects of 
the explosion and looked about for his comrade. 
He saw him lying helpless between the lines, only 
a short distance from the advancing Germans. 
Malcomson had been a great football player in 
college, and using his old tactics, he rushed for¬ 
ward, dodging behind tree trunks and crouching 
in shell holes, finally gaining the place where 
Stony Jack lay. He lifted him to his shoulders, 
and started on his perilous trip back. Their posi- 


WAR CLOUDS 


65 


tion was so close to the German line that it would 
have been easy for the enemy to have riddled 
both with machine-gun bullets; but, to the credit 
of the commander, he ordered the guns elevated, 
and both sides cheered as Malcomson and his 
burden reached the British lines in safety. 

The sands of life in Stony Jack’s glass were 
almost run. He spoke with difficulty. “Thanks, 
old man. You’re a real friend.” 

“I only did what you would have done for me,” 
replied Malcomson with emotion. 

“I wanted to send a message home,” Stony 
Jack continued. “It might help some when the 
news reaches them.” 

“I’ll do my best to get it through,” Malcom¬ 
son assured him. “But just now the chances look 
bad for all of us.” 

“Tell Dad and Ma I tried to be a good soldier 
and a good Whitfield. Tell the preacher I was 
glad to die for my country: Tell Matoaka I died 
without regret or fear, and give her this picture 
that I’ve carried all the time; it’s been a lot of 
comfort to me.” 

His mind began to wander. He was back once 
more in old Kentucky, working with the survey¬ 
ors, romping with the children, following his 
hounds over the mountains. He was back in 
school, re-living those delightful days, building 


66 


MATOAKA 


air castles again. He roused for a moment. “Tell 
Matoaka,” he whispered, “tell Mato—” He was 
gone. What he wanted to tell Matoaka would 

have to wait until a future day. 

******** 

Three weeks later the preacher dropped into 
the post office and was given a letter bearing a 
foreign postmark. He read with blurred eyes 
the message that Malcomson had thoughtfully 
delivered to him to convey to the family. Half 
aloud he said, “I was not wrong in my judgment. 
Stony Jack lived up to my highest expectations. 
God bless him, and help Matoaka!” 

He made his way in sorrowful haste to the 
Whitfield home and read to the family the tragic 
news. The shock rendered them speechless, 
bowed down under the heart-subduing finality 
of God’s eternal decrees. Gently, consolingly, the 
preacher lifted up his voice in prayer, and in a 
few simple, earnest words he led their thoughts 
away from their personal grief and loss, to the 
Heavenly Father, who, to save a world from ruin, 
sacrificed his only begotten Son. 

Long into the. night Matoaka sat in her room 
keeping a tearless, sleepless vigil, reviewing the 
vanished years, faded dreams and blasted hopes 
she and Stony Jack had shared together. Hence¬ 
forth, she must dream and plan alone. 


VIII 


In France 

One morning at breakfast about a week after 
the news of Stony Jack’s death was received, 
Matoaka announced her intention of going to 
France as a nurse. No serious objections were 
raised. As in the case of Stony Jack’s enlistment, 
the matter was accepted as being the Lord’s 
will. Only the sheriff entered a protest when he 
heard of it. “It’s no place and work for a young 
girl,” he declared with emphasis. “Yer dad had 
ort to put his foot down and stop it. He’s done 
’nough and made a big donation already in a 
war that don’t concern us Americans.” 

“The trouble is,” said Matoaka, bitterly scorn¬ 
ful, “that so many self-styled Americans are 
cowards and slackers that some must make a 
double contribution.” 

Felix, who was a lukewarm patriot and critical 
of the war program, subsided, and soon took his 
departure. 

Rapid preparations were made and in a brief 
time Matoaka found herself in Washington, a 
67 


MATOAKA 



part of a swirling sea of marching soldiers, gaily 
uniformed officers, war workers, statesmen, cheap 
politicians, “Dollar-a-Year” men, grafters, soft- 
snap seekers, spies, and foreign diplomats. She 
pushed through the surging tide of humanity 
to the Red Cross headquarters, and began the 
task of training for overseas service. 

Weeks later she was aboard a great transport, 
following the brave example of Stony Jack, her 
mind crowded with thoughts of the wonderful 
events through which she had been passing, and 
of the even more stirring events which undoubted¬ 
ly awaited her on the other side. How short 
the time since Stony Jack had sailed these same 
danger-filled seas, and how brief but glorious his 
career! Would the fates be more kind to her? 

Matoaka thoroughly enjoyed the voyage. Sev¬ 
eral of the passengers were from her own state, 
bound on the same mission as she, and she made 
a number of agreeable acquaintances. No attacks 
were made by the enemy on the transport, and 
one bright morning she anchored in friendly 
waters. 

Three days later Matoaka, with several other 
nurses, were conveyed to an immense white 
building crowded with cots, each cot occupied 
by a sick or wounded American, and she was 
brought face to face with the dreadful realities 


IN FRANCE 


69 


of war. She entered immediately upon her duties 
and for many days was too busy and tired to even 
think of home-sickness. Her one thought was 
to relieve the sufferings' of the constant stream 
of victims broken by the hideous war, as they 
passed daily through the crowded wards. The 
hospital was located well up to the front, and 
the boom of big guns and whir of airplanes sup¬ 
plied a continuous accompaniment to Matoaka’s 
days. Her nerves were keyed to high tension, but 
she never faltered. She was there to aid Stony 
Jack’s comrades in winning the war. 

One morning as she came on duty, the doctor 
said to her, “There is a young chap in your sec¬ 
tion who was brought in during the night. He’s 
in a bad way, with a bullet through his left lung, 
and has a bare chance for his life. But his com¬ 
mander sent word to do our best, or a little bet¬ 
ter for him, as he did not want to lose many 
such fellows. This chap has already been deco¬ 
rated for bravery, and if he lives will receive a 
Captain’s commission for his last exploit. Make 
him as comfortable as possible and report any 
change in his condition. We want to save every 
one we can of these brave boys who are throw¬ 
ing themselves into this conflict with such fine 
enthusiasm.” 

The wounded man was lying on his back in a 


70 


MATOAKA 


semi-conscious state, moaning and talking in¬ 
coherently, moving his head restlessly. Matoaka 
bathed his tanned face and brushed back the 
dark locks that had a tendency to curl about his 
forehead. His face was handsome, though drawn 
and pale from suffering and loss of blood. What 
the doctor had told her made her more than 
ordinarily anxious that this particular patient 
should recover, and she was constant in her atten¬ 
tions, watching eagerly for returning conscious¬ 
ness. 

She was called from his side for a few mo¬ 
ments by another patient and when she returned 
he was gazing at her in a somewhat dazed but 
pleased way. Slowly he opened his lips and as 
slowly and softly, but audibly, spoke the one 
word, “Ma—toak—a!” 

“Why!” she exclaimed in bewilderment, “how 
do you know my name?” 

“That’s what Stony Jack called you. I have 
your picture. _ He gave it to me to give you if 
I ever got back,” explained the wounded man. 
“That was the last word he tried to speak. I 
was Stony Jack’s buddie!” 

The exertion of speaking proved too much for 
the patient, and he lapsed into unconsciousness 
again. Matoaka, in great alarm, called the doc¬ 
tor. He must not die now. Stony Jack’s buddie 


IN FRANCE 


71 


must live. Stony Jack had written so many fine 
things about his chum, had loved him so, that 
she must save his life for Stony Jack’s sake. She 
wanted so much to hear more of her brother’s 
last days on earth from the one man who could 
tell her of the closing scene. Malcomson re¬ 
vived in a few moments, but it was a long time 
before he was able to talk to her upon the topic 
nearest her heart. 

When he was stronger he gave her the pic¬ 
ture he had taken from the hands of her dying 
brother. It was stained with several dark blots 
—Stony Jack’s blood; and fresher splotches— 
Malcomson’s blood, splashed there when the 
machine-gun bullet passed so near his heart. She 
gazed at the picture for a long time with tear- 
dimmed eyes, then kissed it reverently. 

As the days slipped by, Malcomson’s return¬ 
ing strength gave assurance of his recovery. 
Matoaka read to him and wrote letters to his 
people, and learned much from his lips concern¬ 
ing Stony Jack that increased her deep pride in 
her brother. During the weeks that followed, 
the two young people so strangely brought to¬ 
gether amid the wreckage of war, became deeply 
attached to each other, each beholding in the 
other a tie that linked them with a dear memory. 

But while Malcomson was making rapid 


72 


MATOAKA 


progress toward recovery, the nerve-breaking 
pace of war-time nursing was telling on the health 
of Matoaka. She grew thin and began to droop 
perceptibly. The doctors observed her condi¬ 
tion, and one morning the head nurse came to 
her, saying, “My dear, the doctors have pre¬ 
scribed rest and a change of work for you. You 
are to go away for several weeks, possibly 
months.” 

“But I don’t want to go away,” objected 
Matoaka, “I want to go on with my work here. 
I don’t need a rest.” The idea of separation from 
Malcomson was unthinkable. 

“Yes, but orders are orders,” replied her 
superior, “and all good soldiers obey. Further¬ 
more,” she added with a roguish smile, “when 
you hear the orders read you will decide that 
you really couldn’t stay here. You have been one 
of our most faithful and competent nurses; bring¬ 
ing young Malcomson back from the brink of 
the grave was only one of the splendid things 
you’ve accomplished, and the doctors all feel that 
you have earned not only a rest, but a vacation 
in the nature of a promotion. We are planning 
to send a large company of convalescent men, 
including Malcomson, to Southern France for the 
winter, hoping that the change will benefit them. 
You are commissioned to take full charge of the 




IN FRANCE 


73 


movement and to look after the welfare of the 
entire group.” 

“You are a dear,” cried Matoaka with feeling, 
“to plan all this for me. I never can thank you 
enough!” 

“No,” said the nurse, “it’s a matter of duty. 
Stony Jack’s buddie needs Stony Jack’s sister to 
bring him back to health and our country’s 
service.” 

The journey south was a round of delight, 
traveling through quaint villages, wonderful old 
cities, fertile fields and well-kept vineyards, 
cheered on by the grateful French people, who 
were voluble in their expressions of appreciation 
of the help of the Americans in their hour of 
need. The trip supplied an agreeable change 
from the bare walls and crowded wards of the 
hospital, offering instead the balmy sea breezes 
and warm sunshine of the southland. 

Wounds healed rapidly, and the tinge of re¬ 
turning health appeared on pallid cheeks, while 
shattered nerves and battered bodies came slowly 
but surely back to normal. Malcomson and 
Matoaka spent many happy hours together in 
the beautiful parks, enjoying the music of the 
bands, or strolling down the leafy avenues sur¬ 
rounded by laughing, joyous children, safe from 
the horrors of a savage horde of invaders. 


74 


MATOAKA 


In the Spring came the welcome orders to sail 
for home. Hearts thrilled with joy at the 
thought of meeting loved ones again, far from 
the carnage and ruins wrought by the ravages 
of war. To Malcomson and Matoaka the joy of 
returning was tinged with feelings of sadness, for 
separation when they reached New York City 
was inevitable. There had been no exchange of 
vows between them. Malcomson wished to form 
some definite plans for the future, and to give 
them both an opportunity to adjust themselves 
to the new conditions which must surely follow 
the years of confusion through which they had 
passed before asking Matoaka to share his for¬ 
tunes. But both felt that an over-ruling Provi¬ 
dence had, in its own mysterious way, linked their 
lives together. And Matoaka feeling this, was 
content to wait in happy, hopeful expectation. 

Before sailing, a Belgian officer, whom Matoaka 
had nursed through a critical illness, presented 
her with a splendid young police dog that had 
been superbly trained for war duty. She was 
delighted with the gift and named the dog 
“Major” in honor of the donor. 

The return voyage was one of unalloyed hap¬ 
piness. The great steamer plowed through placid 
waters unruffled by a single storm, beneath a 
serene blue sky, fanned by soft breezes. All 



IN FRANCE 


75 


hearts were light as each turn of the propeller 
brought them nearer home. Malcomson, in his 
Captain’s uniform now, and Matoaka spent bliss¬ 
ful hours promenading the wide decks or sitting 
in steamer chairs listening to the orchestra ac¬ 
companied by the swish of the waves against the 
prow of the vessel. 

Malcomson’s father met them when they 
landed and personally thanked Matoaka for the 
great part she had had in restoring his son to 
him well and strong. “He has written us all 
about it,” he told her, “and you must come and 
visit us some time and receive the thanks of his 
mother and sister. We shall always owe you 
a debt of gratitude which is greater than we can 
ever possibly pay.” 

Matoaka, discounting her responsibility for 
Malcomson’s recovery, thanked him for the in¬ 
vitation, hoping that it would be possible for her 
to accept it at some not-too-distant date. Then 
they separated, the girl going south and the men 
to the northwest, but two of the hearts, at least, 
were filled with the wonderful visions of things 
beyond the horizon of the present that keeps 
humanity ever pressing forward. 


IX 


King of the Moonshiners 

Alonzo Whitfield and his son, Carlo, met 
Matoaka at the station on her return home. She 
was amazed at the rapid growth of the little vil¬ 
lage into a busy, thriving city with paved streets, 
electric lights, beautiful modern homes and busi¬ 
ness blocks occupied by modern, well-appointed 
stores. Her brother, about fourteen years of 
age, appeared much taller than as she remem¬ 
bered him and bore a striking resemblance to 
Stony Jack. She observed with a pang of sad¬ 
ness that her father’s hair had grown gray, that 
his shoulders sagged, and his whole appearance 
was thin and careworn. His smile of greeting had 
a pathetic twist that tugged at her heartstrings. 

On the way home Matoaka chattered gaily, 
asking all manner of questions about the people 
and places connected with her life before she left 
for France. Her mother met her with a quiet, 
deeply glad expression in her eyes and kissed her 
affectionately. She, too, had altered. Her lux¬ 
uriant brown hair was streaked with grey, her 
76 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 77 


step had lost much of its elasticity, and she looked 
careworn and sad. Matoaka attributed these 
sad changes to grief over the loss of Stony Jack. 

As Matoaka went through the house and yard, 
peeping into all the old familiar corners, she was 
struck with the dilapidated, rundown appearance 
of everything about the place. Suddenly the 
thought swept over her like a huge sea-billow— 
Stony Jack was not there, never would be again 
—and she buried her face in her arms and wept 
with unrestrained grief. 

About sunset, as she came out on the front 
porch, she observed her father talking with sev¬ 
eral ill-clad, evil-looking characters at the side 
gate. Her mother answered her question as to 
their business evasively, but when she had gone 
back into the kitchen Carlo slipped up behind 
Matoaka and whispered, “Moonshiners!” 

“What are they after, Carlo?” 

“Tryin’ to git Dad to jine ’em. They say 
there’s big money in it.” 

“But surely,” Matoaka protested, “father won’t 
listen to them or have anything to do with them! 
He doesn’t need their money.” 

“Sure he does,” replied Carlo. “Dad, he’s 
busted, an’ the farm’s mortgaged, an’ we’re pore 
again!” 

“Why, Carlo, what do you mean?” Matoaka 


78 


MATOAKA 


demanded. “What has happened? Aren’t the 
mines paying?” 

“Wal, yer see,” responded Carlo, “Dad, he 
bought a sight of wildcat oil stocks from some 
slick-tongued furiners, an’ they sure skinned him. 
Dad, he’s sore on most everybody, an’ says they’re 
all crooks, an’ he says by hokey, he might as 
well git his’n thataway as the rest of ’em. He’s 
got awful cross an’ mean to Ma an’ us kids, an’ 
Ma, she cries a heap when dad’s gone.” 

Matoaka was too shocked and sick at heart to 
ask further questions. She decided to wait and 
talk matters over with her father when he 
came in. 

After the men left, Whitfield walked slowly 
up to the porch and wearily seated himself in 
the old hickory chair. Matoaka softly approached 
him, and placing her arms about his shoulders, 
kissed each of his weather-beaten cheeks. He 
looked up at her, surprised but pleased. “Tell 
me, father,” she began, “what has happened? 
You are in trouble. I must know so I can help 
you and repay you for all you have done for me.” 

He sat silent for a moment, and then replied 
bitterly, “I’m most ’shamed ter tell yer, how I 
let a passel of slick strangers clean me out. I 
made bad investments, an’ if I can’t make a raise 
of a pile of money soon, we’re tetotally ruint. 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 79 


Sheriff Luster’s got a mortgage plastered all 
over the place. Lately he’s bin pushin’ me fer 
settlement. I’m ’feared he’ll close me out. Thar 
’pears to be only one quick way to make money 
these days,” he continued half defiantly. 

“But father, surely you don’t mean to join 
those outlaws in their evil ways ?” questioned 
Matoaka. 

“Why not ? Everybody is taking short cuts 
to riches; why not me?” 

“But father, short cuts don’t bring success. 
They may bring temporary gain, but they inevi¬ 
tably end in disappointment, failure and shame. 
Look at the German people, who thought they 
would take the short cut to Paris, and see where 
they are now. Brace up, father! You are dis¬ 
couraged and blue. One failure shouldn’t defeat 
you. I have my profession, and surely Mr. Luster 
can be persuaded to give us time, and you and 
I together will dig out from under this burden, 
honestly and honorably. And remember also that 
we must be loyal to our government just as much 
in time of peace as in time of war. Stony Jack 
and more than fifty thousand of his brave com¬ 
rades sacrificed everything in defense of justice 
and human rights, and we must keep faith with 
them. The moonshiners, bootleggers and their 
miserable patrons are just as much the enemies 


80 


MATOAKA 


of our country as the Huns, for whose defeat so 
many fine young men died.” 

“Mebby yer right, child, mebby yer right,” said 
her father thoughtfully, and went into the house. 
Matoaka, depressed and sad, retired to her room. 

An hour later Alonzo Whitfield might have 
been seen gliding silently through the woods 
toward an abandoned old cabin in an isolated 
corner of his farm. There he met his visitors of 
the earlier hours of the evening. 

‘‘Yer late, ’Lonzo,” said Andy Jake Blevans. 
“Did the gal try to keep yer from comm’ ?” 

“We talked quite a spell,” said Alonzo, not in¬ 
clined to discuss the subject. 

“Well, don’t let her talk yer out of jinin’ us. 
A helluva lot of them folks what went across the 
big pond come back with big talk, but I say, git 
the money while the gittin’s good, law er no 
law,” asserted Andy Jake defiantly. “Besides, 
’Lonzo,” he continued, “we sure need yer to 
help us pull the big deals with the operators an’ 
politicians. We got a safe place down hyar 
where we can defy all the rev’noos to find us. 
Why, ole Gabriel, what the preacher talks ’bout, 
when he blows the big horn fer thatare Res- 
rection Day, won’t even be able to find us. An’ 
we’ll hev a big lot on hand fer the crowd what 
the preacher says hev bin drinkin’ nothin’ but 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 81 


liquid fire fer a million years. I cal’late we’ll 
make a killin’ then—that is if Sheriff Felix don’t 
butt in an’ want too big a rake-off.” 

“Aw, Andy Jake,” remonstrated Willie Jim 
Crockett, “shet up! Quit a’slanderin’ our noble 
Sheriff. When he gits to be ’Lonzo’s son-in-law 
an’ we ’lect ’Lonzo chief of our clan, I figur we’ll 
purty nigh run this county as fer as the refresh¬ 
ments an’ pollyticks is consarned.” 

A loud laugh greeted this remark, which 
Alonzo interrupted by saying, “Leave off the 
question of wimmen and matrimony, boys.” 

“Ain’t that the gospel truth!” agreed Andy 
Jake. “I say, stick to men an’ moonshine. Wim¬ 
men an’ likker don’t mix no more than dark an’ 
daylight.” 

“Wal, git down to work,” urged Alonzo. “The 
night’s gettin’ along. We must make this run 
of corn juice ’fore day.” 

Without further delay, Andy Jake raised a 
concealed trapdoor in a corner of the cabin floor, 
and the six men, preceded by Alonzo carrying 
a smoking and ill smelling lantern,^descended into 
what proved to be the entrance to an underground 
passage leading into a large cavern. The descent 
was abrupt for a hundred yards or more, the 
passage narrow and winding. It terminated in a 
large room almost twenty feet wide, with a roof 


82 


MATOAKA 


high enough to permit a tall man to stand erect. 
The floor was comparatively dry, but cluttered 
with broken rocks and protruding stalagmites. 

From this room a short passage led into 
another immense room with a vaulted ceiling 
decorated with delicately beautiful stalactites, 
which, when lighted by the rays from the lan¬ 
tern, shown and sparkled as though composed 
of millions of precious stones. The floor of this 
room was smooth and level over a wide surface. 

Here was located a six hundred gallon still 
and two smaller ones, complete with all neces¬ 
sary equipment. A small stream of water ran 
across one side of the room, affording a con¬ 
venient means of disposing of the refuse from the 
stills, and providing a sufficient supply of water 
for their operation. By an ingenious arrangement 
a line of stove-pipe had been led up through the 
passage into the chimney of the cabin, which 
had its outlet in the heavy foliage of a wide- 
spreading chestnut tree, so that smoke issuing 
from it could seldom be seen by day and never 
by night. No safer place could have been found 
anywhere for the illegal manufacture of whiskey. 
Bags of corn meal, dried peaches, raisins and 
sugar were piled in one corner. Also several 
boxes of concentrated lye to give the necessary 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 83 


‘kick’ to the product. Tubs of mash ready for 
the run stood near the stills. 

The men threw off their coats and began work¬ 
ing steadily, without loss of time in conversation. 
Before morning they had a large quantity of 
liquor ready for distribution by the bootleggers. 
This band did not sell the liquor direct. It was 
safer and more profitable to ‘moonshine’ and 
sell through agents. 

******** 

Early next morning Matoaka was up helping 
with the preparation of breakfast, ready for an 
early start to town to apply for a nursing posi¬ 
tion in the local hospital, a small but well-con¬ 
ducted private institution which had proved a 
blessing to the community where so many men 
were almost daily injured in the mines, or 
wounded in the numerous brawls and feuds that 
arose among the more lawless elements. She 
noticed that her father ate almost nothing and 
looked weary and haggard, and had little to say 
as she discussed her plans for the future. As 
Carlo passed her at the dining-room door, he 
gave her a knowing wink and muttered, “Moon¬ 
shiners.” 

Riding into town, Matoaka dismounted near 
the Court House, and the first to greet her was 
the sheriff, Felix Luster. “Wal, now,” he 


84 


MATOAKA 


boomed in a voice like a huge bullfrog, “it sure 
is a sight fur bad eyes to see you home again. 
An’ how good you look! We all thought you’d 
never come back. Was ’feared mebby you’d 
marry one of them gold-laced furrin officers. 
They sure treated you good. Reckon you didn’t 
leave no sweethearts over there? ’Cause we 
figur on keepin’ all our nice, good lookin’ girls 
at home to adorn our own happy firesides.” 

Matoaka made no reply to his jocularity, but 
expressed her thanks for his good wishes and 
spoke of her desire to secure a position where 
she might be able to aid her father in paying his 
debts. 

“Wal, now,” he replied, “yer dad sure did git 
balled up dickerin’ with them strangers. I warned 
him, but he was jest nat’rly hell-bent on beatin’ 
Rockyfeller in the oil game. When they strung 
’im I stepped in an’ saved the farm. I tell him 
to take his time to pay up, but he keeps a’worryin’ 
an’ talkin’ ’bout moonshinin’ an’ easy money, an’ 
sich fool things to git rich quick. But I tell him 
to lay off that stuff. I’d hate to haf to raid his 
place. I have ’nough trouble with these low-down, 
ten-gallon shiners ’thout heven to bring reproach 
on our leadin’ citizens. I sure am glad to see yer, 
Matoaka; yer lookin’ swell in them new clothes. 
Wal, so long,” he called after her as she hastened 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 85 


away. “I'll be seeing you soon at yer house an’ 
we’ll talk to yer dad ’bout that mortgage an’ 
other things.” 

She was glad to escape the man’s loud talk 
and fulsome praise. His presence gave her an 
uncomfortable sensation, something akin to the 
feelings of a young deer sensing the presence of 
an unseen panther. 

At the hospital Doctor Johnson gave her a 
hearty welcome, and was more than pleased to 
learn that her services were available. "We 
thought after your experiences in France you 
would never want to see the inside of a hospital 
again,” he said. 

Matoaka explained to him her desire to be of 
financial aid to her parents, and practical arrange¬ 
ments were soon settled to their mutual satis¬ 
faction. 

Her duties were not especially hard, her asso¬ 
ciations with the hospital staff agreeable, and in 
a few days after taking up her professional duties 
she found herself slipping into the quiet routine 
of her home life once more. She rode Rosewood 
to and from the hospital for the sake of exercise 
and to be at home nights with her family. 

It was as she was riding home one evening 
about two weeks later that she received a long 
letter from Bruce Malcomson. He told of his 


86 


MATOAKA 


safe arrival home, of the joy of being with loved 
ones again. Then he added, 

And now I have a little surprise for you. 

I have laid aside my uniform, but am still in 
the service of my good old Uncle Samuel. 

I have enlisted in government service as a 
secret agent. There is an appalling amount 
of lawlessness rampant, following the great 
upheaval of the war. Our country today is 
in as great peril—perhaps greater—from in¬ 
ternal foes, as she was from foreign invaders 
at the very pinnacle of Germany’s power. I 
feel that I can do my nation no higher service 
than to dedicate myself anew to the defense 
of constitutional government and respect for 
law. While most of our public officials are 
loyal Americans, far too many are in league 
with the forces of disintegration that seek to 
undermine the very foundations of our public 
life. 

I have been assigned to the mountain dis¬ 
trict of your state and will operate as an 
agent for large coal corporations. I hope 
to see you in the near future and renew our 
former good-fellowship. 

Faithfully yours, 

Bruce Malcomson. 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 87 


Matoaka rode slowly, her mind absorbed in 
the contents of the letter she had received, and 
was unconscious of an approaching horseman 
until the loud voice of the sheriff surprised her 
as he reined up his horse at her side. Blushingly, 
Matoaka returned his greeting, and deftly tucked 
the letter in the bosom of her blouse. 

“So,” he said, laughing loudly, “my fears of a 
furriner sweetheart are proved rite ’fore my eyes. 
Better ’fess up afore I use my authority to search 
you as a ’spicious character.” 

“Surely a lone woman on the public highway 
is safe from harm in company with the high 
sheriff of the county,” protested Matoaka in mock 
humility. 

“Oh, sure, yer always safe with me,” said Felix. 
“I’d be willin’ to be yer pertecter ferever. But,” 
he continued, “I’m agin the furriners. I don’t 
want them cornin’ in an’ tellin’ us how to run 
the country an’ a’carryin’ off all our purty girls. 
These reven’oo men, fer instance, with their high 
notions, cornin’ in here an’ actin’ like we all was 
lawbreakers, an’ a stirrin’ up trouble among 
neighbors.” 

“But, Mr. Luster,” Matoaka remonstrated, 
“don’t you think the government is interested 
in law enforcement, and don’t these men assist 
you in suppressing crime?” 


88 


MATOAKA 


“Oh, sure they do. But you can’t be too tight 
on the bootleggers. Our big coal men hev to 
keep their men satisfied, an’ coal diggers ain’t 
satisfied ’thout their likker. They keep running 
from camp to camp, and spend so much time 
huntin’ likker they don’t dig no coal. It hurts 
business. The big coal men pay most of the 
taxes an’ ort to have some pertection.” 

“So you think, then, that mining is more im¬ 
portant than obedience to law, and that paying 
taxes entitles corporations to set aside the law 
when self-interest dictates such a course?” 

“Aw! You wimmen can’t see into this busi¬ 
ness of pollyticks. It’s a tuff question, an’ ort 
to be left in the hands of men, while wimmen 
’tend to home.” 

“Yes, but the women and children are the chief 
sufferers from the loose way in which the laws 
are administered, and they have a right to take 
an active part in securing equal justice,” Matoaka 
replied with some heat. 

They had reached her gate, and Felix, feeling 
somehow that he was making a lame defense of 
his position, excused himself on the pretext of 
going up into the mountains in quest of moon¬ 
shiners. 

“I wish you success, Mr. Luster, in your en¬ 
deavors to enforce the law against all offenders, 


KING OF THE MOONSHINERS 89 


high or low,” she called after him as he rode 
away. 

Alonzo was not home when Matoaka returned. 
He had gone away early to buy some calves at 
the head of the valley, and might not return 
until late. The girl sat on the porch with her 
mother until bedtime, speculating on the reasons 
for Alonzo Whitfield’s prolonged delay in return¬ 
ing. Carlo came close to her side and whispered 
in her ear the same word he had uttered that 
morning, “Moonshiners!” 

She went to bed troubled and perplexed. She 
had a feeling that in some way her father was 
mixed up in the illicit liquor traffic, that the 
sheriff, in spite of his boasting, was shielding the 
bootleggers and moonshiners, and that he had 
some ulterior motive in lending money to her 
father; this last possibility she was particularly 
loath to dwell upon. 

She feared that Malcomson’s arrival would 
complicate matters. Revenue men were not popu¬ 
lar in the mountains. The people as a class 
resented what they regarded a meddlesome inter¬ 
ference in their liberties. She could see that a 
clash might come at any time between Malcom- 
son and the sheriff; and that her father would of 
necessity side with the sheriff, thus leaving her 
the only friend Malcomson would have in a 


90 


MATOAKA 


hostile country. She was not sure that she was 
pleased over the prospect of his coming. Dark 
clouds were gathering about her, and she retired 
to her room to spend a restless, almost sleepless, 
night. 

Toward morning she heard the sound of horses’ 
hoofs on the road, and peeping through the cur¬ 
tains of her window saw her father ride in at 
the gate. She was sure she also saw the sheriff 
riding off toward town. All these circumstances 
combined to make her even more than ever 
apprehensive. 


X 


Malcomson Visits Mato aka 

Several days after the events described in the 
previous chapter, as Matoaka was preparing to 
go home at the close of her day’s work, she 
heard a well-known voice asking for her in the 
little office of the hospital. She hurried to greet 
the inquirer, and she and Malcomson were soon 
chatting and laughing like two children, long 
separated. An hour was spent in discussing their 
adventures since last they had met, and recalling 
some of their mutual experiences in France. 
Loathe to terminate an occasion so delightful to 
both, Matoaka was forced to leave for home be¬ 
fore night should overtake her, but Malcomson 
would not let her go until she promised to see 
him on the following day. 

“You must come out and visit our home,” she 
urged cordially. “Father and Mother will both 
be so pleased to meet Stony Jack’s buddy. Sun¬ 
day is my day off duty,” she continued. “Come 
out then and sample our Kentucky hospitality.” 

He manifested the keenest delight over the 
91 


92 


MATOAKA 


prospect of meeting her in her own home and 
renewing the friendship of former days. 

Bright and early on the following Sunday 
morning he was on the way, having secured a 
saddle horse at the livery stable. He rode 
slowly, enjoying the quiet of a Sabbath in the 
country, appreciating the majestic grandeur of 
the mountains and the beauty of the low-lying 
valleys. His mind was busy reviewing the steps 
in his career which had finally brought him as 
a government agent into the very heart of the 
ancient haunts of the moonshiners. 

His meditations were suddenly and rudely in¬ 
terrupted by the appearance of three roughly 
dressed, unshaven mountaineers, all heavily 
armed. They seemed to have dropped from 
the sky or risen out of the ground, so unheralded 
had been their advent. The place was a secluded 
spot where the road cut through a heavy body 
of timber, leaving a dense forest of trees and 
brush on either side. Malcomson was wholly 
unprepared for trouble, not having thought it 
worth while to go armed so near town on Sunday 
morning. However, he manifested no apparent 
alarm as the men blocked his progress, one of 
them seizing his horse by the bridle. 

“Mornin’, stranger!” drawled the leader. “Be 
yer travelin’ er jest goin’ somewhar?” 


MALCOMSON VISITS MATOAKA 93 


“Good morning, gentlemen,” returned Mal- 
comson, courteously. “I am going out to Mr. 
Whitfield’s farm. That is both traveling and 
going somewhere. And now, if you will be kind 
enough to release my horse,” he continued, “I 
will be getting on.” 

“Not so fast, stranger, not so fast,” admonished 
the other. “We all want to ax yer a few ques¬ 
tions fust. Be yer a friend of ’Lonzo’s?” 

“I am a friend of Miss Whitfield’s,” answered 
Malcomson patiently. 

“Aw yes, goin’ sparkin’, I reckon.” 

“I was invited out for the day.” 

“What mout be yer bizness, stranger, in these 
parts ?” 

Malcomson was angered by the man’s impu¬ 
dence, but realizing the relative weakness of his 
position, he concluded that, as they had the ad¬ 
vantage of him, it would be the better part of 
valor to treat them courteously. “I am repre¬ 
senting some northern coal buyers,” he replied. 

“Yer ain’t representin’ no rev’noos, be yer?” 
queried the mountaineer. “A lot of ’em fellers 
has been nosin’ an’ prowlin’ about these parts, 
meddlin’ in other folkses’ bizness, an’ we figur 
on knowin’ whar strangers is gwine an’ what thar 
gwine after. How’d yer come to know Matoaka, 
’Lonzo’s gal, stranger?” 


94 


MATOAKA 


“I met her in France,” was the quiet reply. 

“Oh, hell! Be yer Stony Jack’s buddy, 
stranger?” 

“I was,” said Malcomson, “before he was 
killed.” 

“Put ’er thar, pardner,” said the man, extend¬ 
ing his hand. “I sure want to shake with the 
man what carried Stony Jack offen the field with 
big shells bustin’ an’ machine-gun bullets flien 
’til yer couldn’t see yer han’ before yer. We 
heard ’bout it all from ’Lonzo. My name’s Abe 
Moses, an’ these har gentlemens is Ike Linken- 
hoker and Andy Jake Blevins. We sure are 
proud ter meet Stony Jack’s buddy. Yer wel¬ 
come to our country.” 

“I am delighted to know you, gentlemen,” 
said Malcomson, “and proud to be in the com¬ 
pany of Moses, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob all at 
the same time, although you seem to be a long 
way from your old home.” 

“Aw, no, pardner, we ain’t fur from home. We 
live t’other side the ridge, over thar. We was 
raised in these parts.” 

“Well, now,” said Malcomson, amused over 
the turn of events, “if you will permit me, I will 
ride on. I have an engagement for dinner.” 

“Not atall, not atall, pardner,” said Moses. 
“This country is dangerous fer strangers, armed 


MALCOMSON VISITS MATOAKA 95 


or unarmed. Some fool moonshiner mout take yer 
fur a rev’noo an’ plug yer. We alus sees that 
strangers git whar they says thar gwine an’ ’tend 
to the bizness they say thar gwine to do. Ike an’ 
Andy Jake will go up the road a spell with yer 
fur pertection. Good day, pardner. I sure am 
proud ter meet yer. Hope we meet again!” 
And Abraham Moses disappeared in the brush as 
completely and mysteriously as he had come. 

Ike and Andy Jake walked ahead of Malcom- 
son without speaking until they came in sight of 
Whitfields’ home. Then, pointing out the place, 
they said, “Thar’s whar yer gwine, pardner. Wish 
yer luck in sparkin’!” And they, too, vanished 
into the bushes. 

Malcomson indulged in a hearty laugh as he 
rode on, as the humorous side of the incident 
dawned more fully upon him. He could clearly 
see the real motive behind the thinly veiled con¬ 
cern these men had for his safety. He also 
realized how well the lawless class was organized 
and how hard it would be to break through the 
cordon of guards and spies to locate their 
strongholds. The encounter was a lesson in the 
task which lay before him; in dealing with a foe 
more cunning, cool, desperate and keen-witted 
than he had met even on the German front. He 
had undertaken a job that was a challenge to his 


96 


MATOAKA 


utmost skill and courage; but he faced the facts 
without misgivings or regrets for the choice he 
had made. He reached the Whitfield gate and 
dismounted, unaware that the eyes of Ike and 
Andy Jake had followed him closely from the 
thicket in which they were hiding. 

Matoaka greeted him hospitably and compli¬ 
mented him on how well he was looking—better 
than when they had parted in New York. 

‘‘Yes/’ he replied, “I am feeling fit in every 
way. I got such fine care and attention while 
in the hospital that there is not a single trace 
of any ill effects from my wound. I only have 
my discharge and a scar to show that I had any 
part in the great war.” 

“And a medal and a commission,” added 
Matoaka proudly. “And the eternal gratitude of 
all Stony Jack’s friends.” 

“Yes,” he replied, thinking of his morning’s 
experience, “I have already received some sub¬ 
stantial tokens of that! I also'have the memory 
of several glorious months in hospital and con¬ 
valescent camp,” he added. “One could almost 
wish to be shot again just for the pleasure of 
being nursed back to life and health.” 

“No! No!” cried Matoaka, “Never wish for 
anything so terrible. I have seen enough of war 
and carnage and suffering to do me for a life- 


MALCOMSON VISITS MATOAKA 97 


time. Let us hope and pray and work for uni¬ 
versal, lasting peace.” 

“But,” objected Malcomson, “it appears that 
there must be many more battles fought with 
the foes of law and justice right here in this 
country, and perhaps much blood shed before 
that can be.” 

Malcomson was delighted to meet the Whit¬ 
field family and did full justice to the good 
home cooking of “Ma.” Alonzo tried to be agree¬ 
able, but was ill at ease when the two sat on the 
porch while Matoaka assisted her mother in the 
kitchen. 

Alonzo discussed politics and business affairs 
in a general way, giving Malcomson some in¬ 
formation on certain coal properties that might 
be bought on good terms. But upon the sub¬ 
ject of lawlessness and moonshining, he “allowed 
that it was not half as bad as the papers reported 
or as the revenue men made out.” He considered 
that the authorities were acting from purely 
selfish motives to give the country a bad name. 

After dinner, Malcomson and Matoaka strolled 
through the orchard and sat under the shade of 
the big trees, discussing their future until the 
gathering shadows reminded them that it was 
time for Malcomson to return to town. He 
rode back, wondering if he would meet his friends 


98 


MATOAKA 


of the morning or any of their ilk. But the road 
seemed to be deserted and silent all the way. 

He had convinced the moonshiners that they 
need not fear him. He was Stony Jack’s buddy. 
How soon would they discover that they had 
guessed wrong, and that the mild mannered, 
soft spoken ex-soldier would prove himself more 
than a match for them in a contest of wits and 
daring, and in first “getting the drop” on his 
adversaries? The name of Malcomson was one 
which would eventually strike terror to hearts 
that had never before felt fear. 


XI 


The Sheriff Stages a Raid 

Moonshining and bootlegging had become so 
profitable in the mountains during the boom 
days when new camps were being established 
and the population rapidly increasing, and those 
engaging in the traffic had grown so bold and de¬ 
fiant, that conditions soon became intolerable. 
Law-abiding citizens waxed indignant and openly 
charged the sheriff with complicity in lawlessness 
because of his failure to make any adequate 
efforts to suppress open and notorious crime. 
The preacher thundered from his pulpit the 
anathemas of heaven against all who engaged in, 
or connived at, law-breaking, or any who dis¬ 
regarded official responsibility. 

Election time was approaching, and the sheriff 
and his party felt it incumbent upon them to do 
something to allay public suspicion and prove 
their loyalty. Orders were issued by the sheriff 
to all his deputies to be vigilant in the search 
for and arrest of all suspicious characters, and 
Felix, in self-vindication, laid plans for a sweep- 
99 

\ 



100 


MATOAKA 


ing raid of the region said to be the center of 
moonshine operations. Some thought the plans 
for this raid were far too elaborate and open to 
prove really effective. 

Malcomson was frequently absent from town 
on unexplained visits. His departure invariably 
coincided with the arrival of strangers in town: 
sometimes it was a capitalist looking over busi¬ 
ness prospects; sometimes a laborer seeking 
work; and once it was an anxious father look¬ 
ing for a lost boy. In these guises Malcomson 
investigated rumors of an immense moonshine 
operation somewhere to the north of the Whit¬ 
field neighborhood. It was this region that the 
sheriff had planned to raid. 

Disguised as a miner out squirrel hunting, 
Malcomson was carefully prospecting for signs 
of the exact location of the still. For several 
days he made no progress, although he saw evi¬ 
dence of activity along numerous trails. Once 
he caught a glimpse of a mountaineer, moving 
silent as a shadow through the bushes and swift¬ 
ly disappearing from view. He heard a gun fired 
from a ridge above him and an answering gun 
in the distance, and knew that all about him were 
desperate characters, plying their wicked trade, 
and that his life would pay the forfeit if he was 


THE SHERIFF STAGES A RAID 101 


discovered trespassing on their domain; but he 
pressed on unafraid and determined. 

When almost ready to abandon the search for 
lack of proof, he caught the familiar odor of 
sour mash, indicating the near presence of a still. 
Moving cautiously through the bushes, he came 
upon a small stream flowing out of the side of 
the mountain. This stream was highly impreg¬ 
nated with the refuse from a still. 

Malcomson was greatly pleased with the find, 
believing that he was on the brink of a real 
discovery. Noting the direction from which the 
stream came, he went up the mountainside for 
more than a mile looking for its source. He 
came to the old cabin, located on the Whitfield 
farm, and noting fresh tracks about the place, 
entered the sagging door. Nothing was visible 
except an old bedstead, a broken chair, and a 
pile of dirty straw in the corner. He was on the 
point of leaving when he heard voices outside, 
and looking through the broken window, saw six 
men approaching. To his amazement he saw 
that they were led by Whitfield. 

He was trapped. He would of course be totally 
unable to satisfactorily explain his presence in 
the cabin, and his disguise could not possibly 
conceal his real identity from their keen eyes. 
Flight was impossible; to remain meant death. 


102 


MATOAKA 


There was no possible pretext for starting a 
fight, and yet he well knew the penalty which 
must be paid by a spy. In desperation he 
searched about for an avenue of escape. He 
caught sight of a rude ladder leading into a rickety 
loft. He scaled it with a quick spring and flat¬ 
tened himself against the planks just as the men 
entered. The gathering twilight helped to throw 
his hiding place into obscurity. 

The party included Malcomson’s three friends 
whom he had met on his way to the Whitfield 
farm, and the loft was so low that he could easily 
have reached down and touched them. He could 
not refrain from smiling as he thought what a 
sensation he would create by dropping into their 
midst, saying, ‘‘Strangers, be yer travelin* er 
jest gwine somewhar?” 

The smile gave place to astonishment as he 
heard Abe Moses say, “Ike, light yer lantern. 
We better git down an’ fire up before the sheriff 
gits hyar.” With a kick, he pushed the straw 
from the corner and lifted a trap door. 

From his position Malcomson could look 
down into the opening which led to the cavern. 
His heart leaped. He had discovered the secret 
place of the clan’s mysterious operations. The 
men swung themselves into the opening, led by 


THE SHERIFF STAGES A RAID 103 


Alonzo with the lantern, and disappeared around 
a turn in the passage. 

It was now quite dark, and Malcomson decided 
to see all he could and get away before the 
arrival of the sheriff. He was puzzled to know 
just what the sheriff’s visit might mean. Quickly 
descending from the loft, he lowered himself into 
the opening and, like a panther pursuing its 
prey, glided silently down the passage. He 
reached the entrance to the large room, where he 
had an unobstructed view of all that transpired 
inside and could hear all that was said by the 
men. They were talking as they fired up. 

“ ’Pears like it’s ’bout time for Hell-Roaring 
Felix to show up,” said Abe. 

“Yep,” concurred Andy Jake. “Mebby he’s 
plannin’ his big raid. Better be keerful, ’Lonzo, 
he might nab us.” 

The men gave a low chuckle of appreciation 
at this remark. 

“Don’t you be ’feared of Felix nabbin’ ’Lonzo,” 
said Ike. “He’s fixin’ to nab ’Lonzo’s gal.” 

Again the men chuckled. 

“Go on, Ike,” said Lige Heath, “Felix ain’t 
goin’ ter nab ’Lonzo, nur his gal either, ’til he 
nabs that smart talkin’ feller that’s shinin’ round 
’Lonzo’s house. Hell-Roaring Felix ain’t got no 
show with him in the way.” 


104 


MATOAKA 


Again they laughed, this time loudly. 

“Shet up, boys!” commanded Alonzo, “and git 
to work.” 

Malcomson was meditating retreat when he 
heard voices and footsteps in the cabin above. 
Again he was trapped. It was the sheriff and a 
deputy about to enter the trap door. 

The passage was narrow, affording no place 
of concealment. The room in front was too 
well lighted to offer protection. There were at 
least eight against one—all Malcomson’s enemies 
except Alonzo, and under the law of the moon¬ 
shiners Alonzo could not shield a spy caught 
red-handed. Malcomson was an uninvited guest 
and he knew the consequences if he were dis¬ 
covered. 

Directly in front of him and above his head 
he noticed a projection of shelving rock. This 
shelf offered space enough to conceal his body, 
if he could reach it. Placing his hands on the 
ledge and his foot on a projection at the side, 
he swung out of sight just as the sheriff came 
into view. 

In the darkness at the edge of the shelving 
rock nearest the room, Malcomson noticed 
something move. Cautiously he shot the rays 
of his pocket flashlight into the corner, revealing 
a large copperhead snake poised ready to strike. 


THE SHERIFF STAGES A RAID 105 


The light so startled the reptile that it threw 
itself back and fell, writhing, upon the shoulders 
of the sheriff just as he entered the room. With 
a scream of terror, he threw it off and rushed 
into the presence of the moonshiners, cursing 
them for keeping such dangerous pets about. 
The sheriff’s companion made short work of the 
deadly reptile. 

‘‘Take a drink, Felix,” urged Abe. “Yer 
nerves is shaky. Yer jest in time to see the big 
run-off, an’ this is the real stuff. None of yer 
coffin varnish ye git from the bootleggers. No 
concentrated lye—jest pure corn juice. We’re 
fixin’ some real likker fur thatar raid, Felix.” 

“Boys,” observed the sheriff, recovering from 
his fright under the influence of several drinks, 
“ain’t yer all a little keerless in havin’ no lookout 
above ?” 

“No,” boasted Alonzo, “we’re safe here. A fox 
couldn’t find this hole.” 

“Don’t be too sure, boys!” warned the sheriff. 
“ ’Pears to me like that coal buyer’s makin’ some 
’spicious steps lately.” 

A loud shout, which nettled the sheriff, greeted 
this remark. 

“To be shore the sheriff’s gittin’ ’spicious,” 
cried Andy Jake. “He ort to be ’spicious. But 
s’long as that feller don’t horn in on our game 


106 


MATOAKA 


an’ sticks to sparkin’, we’uns ain’t goin’ to take 
no sides. That’s yer funeral, Felix.” 

“Yep, sheriff,” added Lige Heath, “yer better 
hev a lookout on the road to ’Lonzo’s house. 
Somebody’s keepin’ that trail hot these days.” 

“Look here, sheriff,” interposed Alonzo, “when 
does this raid come off yer advertisin’ so big?” 

“Tomorrow night,” replied the sheriff, “and 
we want to pull a big one. Have a small still 
an’ several gallons of good whiskey at the big 
cliff near the creek. Get several of the boys to 
come with high-power guns, but tell ’em to 
shoot high. We want lots of noise.” 

After a few more drinks and more talk, the 
sheriff and his deputy left. 

“Now, boys,” said Whitfield, “git busy an’ 
tote the refreshments fur the sheriff’s party up 
into the cabin, an’ jug the rest fur the bootleg¬ 
gers. It’s most daylight.” 

The work completed, Alonzo detailed three 
men to remain in the cave until morning and then 
carry the liquor to the appointed place. The 
rest went home to prepare for the big raid on 
the following night. 

Malcomson, cramped and chilled by the damp¬ 
ness where he lay, was wondering if he would 
have to remain where he was all night and then 
perhaps be locked in when the last man out 


THE SHERIFF STAGES A RAID 107 


fastened the trap door. However, his anxiety 
was relieved in a short time by the loud snoring 
of the men as they lay curled up on some bags 
of meal. Descending from his precarious perch, 
he rapidly made his way up into the cabin. Being 
highly pleased over the outcome of his night’s 
work, Malcomson decided to play a practical 
joke on the sheriff. 

Taking the jugs that were in the cabin to a 
nearby spring, he poured out most of the liquor 
and refilled them with water, placing them back 
where he found them. “Now,” he said to him¬ 
self with a laugh, as he moved down the moun¬ 
tain, “I guess the sheriff will have some real 
grounds for suspicions.” 

The next day Malcomson was in the Court 
House looking up land titles and talking trades 
for coal mines, but no one saw him buy any¬ 
thing. 

******** 

About dusk, the sheriff, accompanied by a 
dozen deputies, rode east into the haunts of the 
moonshiners. Speculation was rife about town 
as to the possible outcome of the raid. Very 
few expressed confidence in its success. It was 
another case of the boy who cried “Wolf.” 

About three hours after the departure of the 
sheriff’s posse, heavy firing was heard in the 


108 


MATOAKA 


direction they had taken. Shortly after, a deputy 
rode into town, his horse foaming, hat gone, and 
several bullet holes through his clothes. He 
reported a fierce battle in which scores of moon¬ 
shiners were desperately engaged against the 
representatives of the law. 

Just as a small army of men was preparing to 
go to the relief of the hard-pressed officers, 
another deputy arrived on a jaded horse and re¬ 
ported a complete rout of the moonshiners, with 
no loss on the side of the defenders of law and 
order. He also reported the capture of a still 
and a large quantity of whiskey. Late that night 
the sheriff and his deputies arrived in town with 
the spoils of war, which were carefully stored in 
the sheriff’s own cellar for safe-keeping. 

Next morning the excitement was raised to 
fever pitch by the report that while the good 
sheriff slept, wearied from his great exertions, 
some miscreants had sneaked into his cellar and 
carried away all the captured liquor. 

On the following day the excitement was re¬ 
doubled when it became known that at an elab¬ 
orate banquet the night before, attended by a 
great company of the town’s most prominent peo¬ 
ple, when the guests arose to toast “our brave 
sheriff,” the toast was suddenly drowned out by 
curses, deep and long, as the guests touched lips 



THE SHERIFF STAGES A RAID 109 


to plain spring water flavored with corn juice. The 
banquet ended in what was almost a riot, many 
of the guests charging the sheriff with having 
played them a low-down trick. 

But Sam Perkins, the town wag, said, “No, 
sir! Somebody is double-crossing the sheriff 
and calling his bluff. The raid was a bluff, I 
tell you—big talk, big battle, big noise, no blood¬ 
shed, no prisoners, ten jugs of water—a water 
haul. Somebody filled those jugs. Who’s on the 
water wagon?” 

For many days the sheriff had to listen to 
all sorts of jokes and answer all kinds of ques¬ 
tions about the difference between real liquor and 
spring water, and whether he had any suspicions 
as to who filled the jugs. Malcomson smiled as 
he went about town, and said nothing. Only to 
Matoaka did he reveal his part in the affair. 



XII 


Planning Political Reform 

Malcomson had not visited the Whitfield home 
since his discovery of the underground stills 
and Alonzo’s connection with the moonshiners. 
He had a feeling of delicacy in accepting hospi¬ 
tality while holding evidence against Whitfield 
that he might have to use against him later. 

The revelations of the night in the cavern 
placed him in an embarrassing position and gave 
him anxious concern. He had secured damaging 
evidence against all the important moonshiners 
and bootleggers of the country—sufficient evi¬ 
dence to convict a number of the most prominent 
citizens and a few officials of the county. He 
had run down a powerful clan of desperate char¬ 
acters operating under official protection, which, 
by its family and political affiliations, linked to¬ 
gether every important section of three counties. 
He could light a fuse that would touch off a 
mine, causing a tremendous explosion. But would 
any good results follow? 

The county government was controlled by the 
no 


PLANNING POLITICAL REFORM 111 


outlaw element. It would be next to impossible 
to get a conviction in the local courts, and Fed¬ 
eral agents would not get local support in gather¬ 
ing evidence or making arrests. Altogether, it 
was a dark outlook; but the thing that most 
deeply troubled Malcomson was the part being 
played by Whitfield. The latter was recognized 
as the chief of the outlaw band. He was also 
the father of Stony Jack and of Matoaka. What 
would Matoaka think of the man who would turn 
evidence against her father and put him in jail, 
bringing humiliation and disgrace upon the 
family? 

Malcomson loved Matoaka. He was sure of 
that, had been sure, even while in France. He 
had asked for assignment to this territory in the 
hope of being near her, and now he found him¬ 
self in a position, the outcome of which might 
destroy the happiness of her home. He felt in¬ 
clined to resign his post and go away with the 
secrets he had discovered locked up in his heart. 

It was a knotty problem to solve—the prob¬ 
lem of the struggle between love and duty. It 
was too knotty for him, and he decided to consult 
the preacher, whose opinions upon the political 
and social questions of the day he had learned to 
value. He enjoyed the preacher’s fiery eloquence 


112 


MATOAKA 


when he heard him denouncing sin and lawless¬ 
ness at the Sunday services. 

Malcomson found the preacher busy on plans 
for a new church building. He began by saying, 
“I see you are engaged. I’ll call again.” 

“No, sit down!” urged the preacher, putting 
aside his work. “This can wait and I want to 
rest a bit, anyhow.” 

“I'm afraid it will not rest you to hear my 
troubles,” answered Malcomson gloomily. 

“You troubled?” exclaimed the preacher, smil¬ 
ing. “I thought you the happiest, most care-free 
person in the whole countryside. What is the 
nature of your malady? Anything wrong up the 
road?” 

“Yes, that’s just it,” said Malcomson, and he 
gave the preacher a rapid resume of the situation 
as he had developed it. The preacher was not 
surprised at the revelations. They only confirmed 
his own suspicions, which had been aroused as 
he traveled about the country on his mission. 

The preacher was silent for a few moments 
after Malcomson explained his situation, then he 
said, “Have you told this to Matoaka?” 

“No,” replied Malcomson, “I did not know 
whether to tell her, or just pack up and leave 
without making any explanation. 

“I think I would talk it over with her,” advised 





PLANNING POLITICAL REFORM 113 


the preacher quietly. “She is sensible and clear 
in her view of what is right. She will give you 
sound counsel. And I wouldn’t go away,” he 
continued. “Your duty is here. That much is 
clear in my mind. When the world’s destiny was 
in the balance and your flag beckoned you, which 
came first—friends or country ?” 

“Oh, my country, certainly!” exclaimed the 
young man earnestly. 

“Yes,” continued the preacher, “there are cer¬ 
tain duties more sacred than domestic or social 
obligations. You and ten million other brave 
American boys helped destroy a foreign foe, but 
a domestic foe as malignant and treacherous is 
now seeking to undermine the foundations of 
constitutional government. The call for unself¬ 
ish service is just as insistent now as it was in 
the darkest days of the war. To shirk duty now 
would be to display the spirit of a slacker. You 
asked me for my advice, son, and I have given it!” 

Malcomson arose, his face white and set. He 
grasped the preacher’s hand. “I thank you. I’ll 
see Matoaka, and I’ll stick!” 

As he walked rapidly away, erect as a soldier 
going into battle, the preacher watched him go 
with a feeling of pride. Then he said softly to 
himself, a mist gathering before his eyes, “I 
wonder if I am sending that boy to his death as 


114 


MATOAKA 


I sent Stony Jack? God help him and Matoaka!” 
And the preacher turned back to his work again. 

Malcomson went directly to the hospital in 
order to determine at once the matter of 
Matoaka’s attitude. He found the girl preparing 
to go home. She greeted him pleasantly and 
then observing his serious expression, asked, 
“Why so solemn this fine day? Have you made 
a bad trade in coal lands?” 

“No,” he replied without returning her smile, 
“but I have made discoveries of big trades in 
other lines of business. Are you in much of a 
hurry? I want to talk with you.” 

“Can’t you ride home with me?” she asked. 
“We can talk on the way.” 

“I would rather talk here,” he answered, “if 
we can be undisturbed for a little while.” 

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “Step in the doc¬ 
tor’s private office. He is out making calls.” 

“I came,” he began, as soon as they were both 
seated, “at the suggestion of the preacher. I was 
in doubt as to a matter of duty. He gave me his 
advice and then sent me here for your opinion. 
My whole future course of action hinges on your 
decision.” 

“Why,” she protested, blushing, “how could 
any decision of mine have so much to do with 
your future?” 


PLANNING POLITICAL REFORM 115 


“Just this way,” replied Malcomson. “I know 
too much for the security of a large number of 
people who have been violating the law. Some 
of these people are very near and dear to you. 
I do not wish to proceed against them without 
your sanction. I value your friendship highly, 
and I do not wish to forfeit it. I have evidence 
of the existence of a powerful band of moon¬ 
shiners operating under official protection; many 
of them are prominent men, socially and politi¬ 
cally.” 

“And you want my opinion,” she asked, “upon 
the question of how to break it up?” 

“Not exactly that,” he answered. “The band 
can be broken up without much difficulty, but 
the process will leave behind a trail of injured 
reputations, broken home ties, and hearts, and 
a trail of blood. Forgive me, Matoaka, for reveal¬ 
ing to you some very unpleasant facts. I was 
Stony Jack’s buddy. I loved him like a real 
brother. I would have gladly died for him. He 
is sleeping over there in France. I came back 
and took an oath to uphold the constitution and 
the flag for which he died. In pursuance of my 
duties in the governmental service, I have made 
the terrible discovery that my buddy’s father— 
and your father, Matoaka—is king of the moon¬ 
shiners’ band. I am charged with the solemn 


116 


MATOAKA 


duty of bringing him before the bar of justice!” 

Matoaka had turned deathly pale during Mal- 
comson’s speech. “Are you sure of this?” she 
asked in the barest whisper. 

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt,” he replied. 

“And what did the preacher advise you to do?” 

“My duty. He believes that this conflict is as 
much a war in behalf of human progress and 
good government as the raid against the Huns, 
and that as I put country above personal inter¬ 
ests in that great struggle, I should do the same 
now. My duty is clear!” 

She remained silent for some time, and he 
awaited her answer with beating heart. Finally 
she arose and walked over to his side, placing 
her hand upon his shoulder. With a visible ef¬ 
fort she said, “The preacher is right, Bruce. Your 
duty is perfectly clear, and so is mine. Stony 
Jack would expect his comrade and his sister to 
keep faith with what he died to save, even against 
his own father if that father should unfortunately 
be on the wrong side. Poor father!” she con¬ 
tinued sadly. “He does not understand. He has 
lived in these hills all his life and his mind has 
been cramped and warped by his environment. 
He has been robbed by swindlers, discouraged 
by reverses and tempted by evil men with the 
accursed lure of gold. His only salvation lies in 


PLANNING POLITICAL REFORM 117 


the hope that he may see his error before it is 
too late, but the call of country comes before 
personal or family interests.” 

Malcomson sprang to his feet and grasped her 
hand. “You’re a wonder!” he exclaimed. “The 
preacher said you would advise me right, and 
I am sure you have. We will face the problem 
together and try to save your father’s name if 
possible.” 

Matoaka thought deeply for a moment before 
she suggested, “Why couldn’t we organize a 
reform movement and elect officers who will 
really enforce the law and definitely discourage 
law-breaking? Many men become freebooters 
only because it is so easy to do so when public 
officials actually encourage violation of the law. 
Women can vote now and I am sure a great 
many women and men too will welcome a chance 
to vote for a change in existing conditions.” 

“I had thought of that,” replied Malcomson. 
“It’s worth trying. We will call a conference 
of those whom we know are friendly to the re¬ 
form movement and find out the sentiment of 
the leaders on the subject. If we can get rid 
of a lot of corrupt officials and political scoun¬ 
drels, it would go a long way toward instilling 
respect for the government in the minds of the 
people and discouraging the lawless elements.” 


118 


MATOAKA 


They discussed the matter of the reform move¬ 
ment until Matoaka was compelled to leave in 
order to reach her home before night. Planning 
a really constructive program was a relief to the 
troubled feelings of both man and girl, forming 
another common bond of interest for the days 
to come. 


XIII 


Felix Raids a Hornets’ Nest 

The sheriff, feeling that he had not been mak¬ 
ing conspicuous progress lately against his rival 
for the attentions and favors of Miss Whitfield, 
and still craving the distinction of being the 
son-in-law of Alonzo, decided upon a campaign 
of aggression. He was prepared, if necessary, to 
play his trump card—the mortgage he held on 
Whitfield’s farm. The frequent jibes and jokes 
of his friends in regard to the ‘furriner’s’ place in 
Matoaka’s affections nettled Felix more than he 
cared to admit. 

He determined to put a quietus on his rival and 
his tormentors at one fell stroke. He would call 
on Matoaka and lay both his heart and the mort¬ 
gage at her feet. He could not conceive that 
such an offering would be refused. How any girl 
in her right mind could reject a man holding his 
high position, politically and financially, for an 
obscure stranger who apparently had no means 
of providing for her, was beyond the sheriff’s 
comprehension. 


119 


120 


MATOAKA 


Felix planned his moves with unusual care. He 
even went to the expense of acquiring a new, 
tailor-made suit of the latest pattern, a silk 
shirt (his first), patent leather shoes, and a 
broad-brimmed Stetson hat. Thus attired he 
felt himself irresistible, and like Solomon in 
all his glory, his clothes emitting a strong odor 
of musk, his heart in his mouth and the mortgage 
in his pocket, Felix rode him forth one lovely 
Sabbath morning in quest of his lady-love. 

Unfortunately, it had rained hard the previous 
night and there were numerous puddles of muddy 
water in the road. Felix guided his horse care¬ 
fully around these treacherous spots, his thoughts 
winging ahead to the scene of his conquest and 
his future happiness. All was going as merrily 
as the proverbial marriage bell, when an evil 
spirit entered into conspiracy against Felix. 

As he rode joyously along all unconscious of 
impending disaster, the sound of his horse’s hoofs 
disturbed the dreams of a stray hog lying in a 
corner of the fence enjoying a late Sunday morn¬ 
ing nap. The porker’s start and grunt of pro¬ 
test alarmed the sheriff’s usually docile horse, 
and he shied abruptly to one side, planting both 
forefeet deep in a pool of muddy water. The 
consequences were disastrous. Felix’s new suit 
and silk shirt-front received a baptism of ugly 



FELIX RAIDS A HORNETS’ NEST 121 


yellow mud, completely ruining his brave appear¬ 
ance and dampening his exuberant spirits. 

On first thought the sheriff was disposed to 
retrace his steps and make a fresh start. But, re¬ 
calling the old proverb of bad luck attending a 
journey thus interrupted, and desiring to do noth¬ 
ing that might jeopardize the success of his mis¬ 
sion, he decided not to tempt fate by turning 
back. By riding slowly in the sun he calculated 
his suit would dry sufficiently to scrape off the 
mud before he reached the Whitfield home. 
The splash on his shirt-front was more serious. 
Then he was struck with a happy thought: he 
would ride into the bushes, take off his shirt, and 
turn it wrong side out. Thus both time and soap 
would be saved. 

Putting the brilliant idea into immediate execu¬ 
tion, he rode into a thicket beneath a large beech 
tree with low, broad branches. Already seriously 
delayed on his important errand, the sheriff 
decided to prove his dexterity and economize on 
time by making the transformation while still 
seated in the saddle. Carefully removing coat, 
vest and tie, and hanging them on a limb, he 
began the apparently simple feat of 'skinning the 
cat’ by pulling his shirt off over his head. Had 
the shirt been larger and the day not quite so 
warm, the task would have been easy. After 


122 


MATOAKA 


several heroic efforts, aided by sundry voluble 
oaths, Felix succeeded in getting his arms half 
way out of the sleeves, leaving his head, like that 
of a frightened terrapin, concealed in the folds of 
the shirt bosom. At this crucial moment he 
thrust one arm up wildly among the overhanging 
branches in a frantic effort to disentangle him¬ 
self. 

The evil spirit still pursuing the sheriff had 
hung a huge hornets’ nest directly over his head. 
Its inmates were quietly enjoying the peace of 
that Sunday morning, when the man’s hand 
suddenly drove half way through their domicile. 
The whole colony sallied out in battle array to 
defend its hearth and home. 

The attack was instant and furious. Felix had 
not a moment’s warning; he was utterly helpless. 
Afterward he was grateful that his head and 
hands were protected. The hornets assailed him 
on the one exposed spot of his ample body— 
a bare strip of back about six inches wide just 
above the band of his trousers. The horse, at 
the first hint of danger, dashed away through 
the bushes at a furious pace, snorting with pain 
and terror. The sheriff, handicapped as he was, 
had difficulty in keeping his seat. He clung 
desperately to the horn of the saddle and horse’s 
mane with his muffled hands, bellowing to the 


FELIX RAIDS A HORNETS’ NEST 123 


frantic animal to stop. He might as well have 
commanded old Father Time to stay his onward 
flight. “Hell Roaring Felix,” he lived up to his 
name with a power and volume of expression 
that did him credit. 

The sheriff had no idea where he was being 
carried. He only knew that the animal under 
him was breaking all speed records in a state 
where racing is one of the chief sources of 
entertainment and revenue. It was scarcely a 
half-mile to the Whitfield farm and, unkown to 
his rider, the horse covered the distance in an 
incredibly short time, goaded on by more than 
two score of infuriated hornets avenging an 
insult. The yard gate of the farm was open 
and the maddened animal dashed through in a 
vain attempt to escape his tormentors. The 
half dozen hounds lounging on the porch gave 
chase, yelping with the full power of their lungs. 

Matoaka was frightened when she first saw 
the frenzied horse come tearing up the road; 
when he entered the gate, his strange rider cling¬ 
ing desperately to his mane, she was amazed. 
Then, as the significance of the spectacle burst 
upon her, she was convulsed with laughter, in 
which she was joined by all the children. Felix 
heard their peals of merriment and they stung 
him with a more bitter smart than the sting of 


124 


MATOAKA 


the hornets. That laughter was the death knell 
of all his high hopes. He knew that when a 
man excites the ridicule of the object of his affec¬ 
tions, all is over but the interment of the corpse. 

Matoaka sent Carlo to open the stable door 
and head the horse in that direction, hoping he 
might find a refuge from the hornets in its cool, 
darkened interior. As the animal dashed through 
the low door of the stable, Felix was caught 
against the overhead timber and swept off, 
sprawling stunned in the yard. 

“What yer all tryin’ to do, sheriff ?” drawled 
Carlo, grinning. “Trainin’ to be a circus hoss 
rider?” 

Partially recovered from the effects of his 
tumble, Felix arose and went into the barn with¬ 
out a word, closing the door behind him. Once 
inside, he brought what order he could out of the 
chaos of his appearance and calmed his nervous 
horse. When sure that it was safe, he emerged, 
mounted his horse and rode away, not once 
looking toward the house. A consuming feudal 
hate burned in his soul like a seven-fold heated 
furnace—a hate that would burn until quenched 
in human blood. He meditated a revenge that 
would humiliate Matoaka, and humble her 
haughty spirit, at the same time effectively dis¬ 
posing of his hated rival, Malcomson. Then, with 





FELIX RAIDS A HORNETS’ NEST 125 


the field clear and Whitfield in his power, the way 
would be plain for his final triumph. He’d show 
them! 

As he rode down the lane, erect and defiant, 
looking neither to the right nor the left, Matoaka 
read a menace in his bearing, and a chill of im¬ 
pending danger gripped her heart. She was a 
little sorry that she had laughed. 


XIV 


The New Deputy Sheriff 

The idea of political reform championed by 
Matoaka struck a responsive chord in many 
hearts in the community, and the movement 
assumed definite form in a platform pledged to 
law-enforcement and the administration of equal 
justice. A ticket was placed in the field, most 
of the candidates being ex-service men who had 
proved their devotion and loyalty on the battle¬ 
field. Malcomson and the preacher rallied the 
men to the new standard, while Matoaka organ¬ 
ized clubs among those women who had been 
most active in Red Cross work. Soon the cam¬ 
paign was in full swing. 

At first the matter was treated as a joke by 
the old line politicians and their henchmen. Re¬ 
form tickets had been put in the field before and 
never had amounted to anything. They pre¬ 
dicted this would be a similar flash. But this 
movement had more vitality. When a number 
of mass meetings were held, attended by large 
and enthusiastic crowds, the leaders of the old 
12 $ 


THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF 127 


gang became alarmed, and ridicule gave place to 
criticism and abuse. Women in politics proved 
an offense to their sensitive souls and an out¬ 
rage to their moral standards. Matoaka came 
in for a large share of criticism, being a con¬ 
spicuous leader in organization work; she had 
even dared to address a few meetings when the 
appointed speakers failed to appear. 

“Fool notions picked up over in France,” was 
the caustic comment of a former judge of the 
county, after listening to her on one such occa¬ 
sion. “We’ve give ’em too much liberty and 
they’ll destroy the peace of our country, jest 
like the first one did in the paradise God fixed 
up for man’s happiness.” 

“Didn’t I warn yer all?” demanded Judge Hull. 
“That danged new railroad has filled up this 
peaceful country with those danged furriners with 
their high notions of reform and edication, and 
a lot of our fool people hev fell fer ’em. The 
good old days is gone ferever.” 

“Yep!” broke in the sheriff, now fully recovered 
from his encounter with the hornets, “some of 
our gals has got too much book lamin’ an’ have 
got edicated above thar people. They’ve gone 
crazy over these furriners and turned agin thar 
own blood kin.” 

“Sure,” agreed Sam Perkins, the wag. “I hear 


128 


MATOAKA 


they have even jilted some of our leadin’ citi¬ 
zens to follow the call of the strangers. They’ve 
even gone to the point where, when our young 
men attempt to call on them, they sic the hogs 
and hornets on ’em. With such outlandish pranks 
goin’ on our young men have no more chance 
against these slick-tongued, smooth-mannered 
strangers than a wooden legged dog chasin’ an 
asbestos cat through the streets of hell!” 

“Ain’t yer saying a plum whole mouthful!” 
exclaimed Baz Belcher. “It’s a red hot, burnin’ 
shame! It’s time we showed these fellers whar 
they are headin’ in at.” 

******** 

Both Malcomson and the preacher threw them¬ 
selves into the campaign for reform without 
reserve, realizing that conditions were favorable 
for the overthrow of the political machine that 
for years had managed the affairs of the county 
to its own taste and profit. Most of the coal 
corporations were sympathetic with the inno¬ 
vators, while a few of them were lending open 
support. Several of the larger companies, put¬ 
ting dollars above duty to country, opposed any 
change; they wanted to see men in office amen¬ 
able to their dictation, feeling that their power 
and prestige entitled them to special favors. 

The politicians were growing daily more 


THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF 129 


panicky over the rising tide of reform, and held 
many conferences to devise a method of wet- 
blanketing the movement. The sheriff and 
Judge Hull were prominent in these meetings, 
the sheriff meditating a double revenge; he 
sought the death of Malcomson and an enforced 
marriage with Matoaka. His cowardly soul 
shrank from doing the actual killing; he would 
choose some roundabout way that would absolve 
him from blame. 

An idea had been slowly taking form in his 
brain. He realized he was under suspicion of 
being in league with the outlaws, and his scheme 
aimed to deal one master stroke which would 
vindicate himself and dispose of Malcomson. 
With the latter, the life and soul of the reform 
movement, out of the way, it would be a simple 
matter to wreck the campaign. It was an in¬ 
genious though diabolical idea. 

The sheriff knew that Malcomson was abso¬ 
lutely fearless and incorruptible. Why not ap¬ 
point him to a deputyship and set him the task 
of fighting the outlaws? This would prove the 
sincerity of Felix in his efforts to enforce the 
law, and at the same time give the freebooters 
a good excuse for removing the deputy by death. 
Felix would be the gainer in both events. He 
never doubted that ‘the boys’ would execute 


130 


MATOAKA 


their part of the program. At a secret gather¬ 
ing of the ring, the scheme was unanimously 
approved, and Felix was urged to act promptly 
as time was passing. 

The following day the sheriff approached Mal- 
comson on the matter, expressing his high 
opinion of the latter’s courage and ability. Mal- 
comson listened to him attentively and then re¬ 
plied, “I will accept the position on two con¬ 
ditions.” 

“Name them,” said the sheriff promptly, will¬ 
ing to grant a dozen concessions to gain his 
point. “I’ll give yer unlimited power.” 

“That’s one,” answered Malcomson. “The 
other is that you appoint Creed Houchins as my 
assistant.” 

Houchins was an ex-service man who had a 
distinguished service medal for bravery. He and 
Malcomson had become fast friends. 

“Gosh! Yer mean bizness!” exclaimed the 
sheriff. “When do yer want ter start?” 

“Now!” replied Malcomson, “and, sheriff, I 
serve notice on you right now that we are going 
into this fight with eyes wide open, and I 
guarantee we will bring in more evidence of 
being on the job than a few gallons of water. 
We shall expect your full co-operation, and there 
must be no attempt at double-crossing us in the 


THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF 131 


campaign. Call up Houchins and give us our 
badges 1” 

That evening Malcomson and Houchins held 
a consultation and decided that the way to aid 
the reform cause and create a stampede among 
the forces of evil was to strike swift and hard. 
They would soon prove the suspicions against 
the sheriff well founded by securing immediate 
results. 

Matoaka was deeply distressed when she heard 
of the sheriff’s appointment, feeling confident 
that there was some treacherous motive behind 
the act. She warned Malcomson of his suspected 
danger and he admitted that he held similar 
suspicions, but felt confident he could forestall 
any plot by prompt action. 

Two nights later the two newly appointed 
deputies slipped unobserved into the mountain 
fastness. Entering a region from which the boot¬ 
leggers were known to have been operating, they 
spent several hours in fruitless search. Finally, 
after arranging a code of signals, they separated 
to explore both sides of a long ridge, planning 
to meet at the head of a creek some miles 
beyond. 

Malcomson had not gone far on his course 
when, rounding a sharp turn at the head of a 
ravine near a large spring, he came suddenly 


132 


MATOAKA 


upon five men busily engaged in running off the 
product of a two-hundred gallon still. The moon¬ 
shiners had removed their coats and stacked 
their guns against a tree some fifteen or twenty 
feet away. Feeling perfectly secure from sur¬ 
prise, they had posted no lookout. The surprise 
was mutual and complete. Malcomson was the 
first to recover. 

“Throw up your hands!” he shouted, leveling 
his gun. “Don’t move, or I’ll kill you!” 

“Throw up yer heels, yer damned spy!” re¬ 
plied one of the men, making a dash for his gun. 

Malcomson’s gun cracked and the man fell. 
Four more shots rang out on the night air in 
quick succession, and the five moonshiners lay 
huddled in a helpless heap. Not a man reached 
his gun. In a few seconds, the busy outlaw 
enterprise had been transformed into a tragic 
scene of destruction—three men were stone dead 
and two badly wounded. 

Malcomson quickly reloaded his gun, ignorant 
of how soon other outlaws might appear on the 
scene. He blew a whistle for Houchins, but the 
latter had heard the shots and was hurrying to 
his aid. The two deputies rendered what assist¬ 
ance they could to the injured men. 

“I am sorry you did not heed my warning,” 
said Malcomson to the two survivors. “I didn’t 


THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF 133 


want to injure you, but you forced my hand; it 
was you or me.” 

“Like hell we did!” cried one of the men. 
“W’at yer doin’ out hyar? We warn’t meddlin’ 
with yer! Why didn’t yer stay home an ’tend 
ter yer own bizness? Who sent yer out hyar?” 

“The sheriff did,” replied Malcomson quietly. 
“He commissioned us to break up lawlessness 
in these mountains.” 

“Aw, he did, did he? Damn him! We’ll git 
him, an’ yer too! Why didn’t he send yer arter 
old ’Lonzo an’ his clan? W’at yer pickin’ on 
us little fellers fur? That damned sheriff’s per- 
tectin’ the big shiners and houndin’ us little 
fellers. Yer won’t give a pore man no chanct 
ter pervide a honest livin’ fer his family. It’s 
our land, ain’t it? It’s our corn, ain’t it? We 
raise it, don’t we? If we wants to sell it in sacks 
er jugs, it’s our bizness, ain’t it? Who in hell 
says we kayn’t?” 

“The government forbids it,” answered Mal¬ 
comson. 

“Then to hell with yer government!” shrieked 
the outlaw. “My daddy made likker in these 
hills, an’ his daddy did, an’ his daddy did, an’ 
nobody stopped ’em. An’ yer won’t stop me— 
only with bullets,” he added after a pause. “Oh, 
Lordy! I’m afraid I’m goin’ to die!” 


134 


MATOAKA 


The officers tried to reassure him, and began 
to plan for the removal of the two wounded men 
to the hospital. 

“We’re in a pickle, Houchins,” admitted Mal- 
comson. “We have made a bigger haul than 
we figured on.” 

“We can’t carry the men out without help,” 
replied Houchins, “and we can’t very well leave 
them alone.” 

“No,” admitted the other, “there is only one 
thing to do. I crippled these men and I’ll stay 
on guard while you go for help. Bring a sled 
as far up the ridge as you can, and make as 
good time as you can. There may be a dozen 
more moonshiners here before you get back.” 

It was a long, anxious wait. Malcomson made 
his two prisoners as comfortable as possible near 
the fire, while he kept watch in the shadows for 
the possible coming of other outlaws. None 
came. He had killed or captured the entire party. 

After what seemed a very long time, Houchins 
arrived with several men, including a doctor, and 
the wounded men and their dead comrades were 
removed to town. Intense excitement ensued. 
The streets filled with angry men and women. 
Stern visaged mountaineers, heavily armed, came 
in from the hills, openly voicing threats against 
the two deputies. Consternation reigned in the 


THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF 135 


camp of Felix and his political clique. Their 
plans had wofully miscarried. Their calculations 
had, by some mischance, failed. They had mis¬ 
judged both the new deputy and the moon¬ 
shiners ; had set their line for a sucker and caught 
a tartar. 

The situation was tense. The friends of the 
deputies rallied around them, but some of the 
more timid advised them to “beat it out of the 
valley,” as it would only be a question of time 
until the outlaws would kill them. 

Matoaka—not from timidity, but love—joined 
in this warning. She knew the relentless, N venge¬ 
ful spirit of the mountaineers, and realized that 
the two officers would walk in the shadow of 
death until the fatal shot was fired; their doom 
was sealed. The men themselves knew this as 
well as anyone, but steadfastly refused to leave. 
They had anticipated just this contingency when 
they accepted their commissions from the sheriff. 

“When I went to France,” said Malcomson, 
“I got used to the idea that I might be killed 
any minute. I expected to be killed. That I 
came back alive was my good fortune. When I 
took my oath of office I again put my life into 
the hands of the government. I cannot run away. 
You would not have me show the white feather 
after the first battle. I shall be on my guard, 
but I am sworn to stick to my post.” 



XV 


Matoaka Offers to Marry Felix 

Alonzo was greatly upset over the death of the 
moonshiners, some of whom were his neighbors. 
He became sullen, irritable and skulking, avoid¬ 
ing Matoaka. He was absent from home more 
than ever. 

One evening Matoaka, coming home earlier 
than usual, found her father and the sheriff deep 
in earnest conversation. Both were obviously 
embarrassed by her appearance, and the sheriff 
quickly excused himself after greeting her 
briefly. Alonzo looked guilty and avoided her 
gaze. 

“Father,” she inquired meaningly, “what is the 
sheriff after today? He has not been here for 
a long time.” 

“Oh, he’s all busted up over that killin’ by his 
fool deputy, who ’pears to take his new job 
seriously. Felix is ’feared the people will place 
the blame on him. Felix didn’t think it would 
happen thataway.” 

“No,” said Matoaka, “he thought it would be 
136 


MATOAKA OFFERS TO MARRY FELIX 137 


just the other way—a dead deputy. I think the 
sheriff is probably worried oyer his plans going 
wrong. 

“Father,” continued the girl, “can’t you, won’t 
you, do something to correct the deplorable con¬ 
ditions existing in this county? This state of 
affairs cannot continue. Brave officers are being 
murdered in cold blood. Men are being shot, or 
sent to prison, taken from their homes, leaving 
families destitute. It broke my heart today to 
see the forlorn wives of those wounded moon¬ 
shiners come in with a hunted look in their 
tearless eyes, the little, frightened, ragged, under¬ 
fed children clinging to the skirts of their mothers. 
They are the real sufferers and innocent victims 
of the reign of lawlessness now existing.” 

Whitfield was powerfully moved by her earnest 
appeal, and shifted uneasily in his chair. 
Huskily he replied, “I wish I could! I wish I 
could! But I’m all balled up an’ swamped by 
debts. Felix is crowdin’ me an’ says I must 
settle up. I don’t know what he means.” 

“I do,” said Matoaka calmly. “He means to 
force you to your knees, kill or run Malcomson 
out of the country, and compel me to marry him, 
whether I want to or not.” 

“Well,” temporized her father, “Malcomson is 
a fool for staying an’ fightin’ the people, an’ 


138 


MATOAKA 


tryin’ to change thar habits. Felix, he’s been a 
good friend uv the family, an’ he thinks a heap 
o’ you, Matoaka,” continued her father hesi¬ 
tantly. “He’d pervide yer a good home.” 

“Do you wish me to marry him, father?” asked 
the girl in a tone utterly unlike her usual calm 
one. 

“No,” replied her father, “not perzactly, if yer 
don’t want to. He axed me ef I’d anything ter 
say again’ it pervidin’ you agreed.” 

“And so he has already gained your consent,” 
she said bitterly. 

“Wal, I told him I reckoned I’d hev to let him 
hev yer ter settle that air mortgage.” 

“What did he say?” she demanded scornfully. 

“He said he reckoned—” 

“Father,” broke in the harassed girl, “I despise 
Felix Luster! He is a low, ignorant, vulgar, 
drunken scoundrel. He is in league with out¬ 
laws and criminals. He has perjured himself 
before the state and before God. I would rather 
die than marry him if I were the only one con¬ 
cerned, but if you will brace up and settle down 
to an honest life once more, and save Malcomson 
from Felix and his murderous clan I’ll marry 
Felix and pay off your mortgage!” 

She spoke vehemently, tears coursing down her 
cheeks. Alonzo slumped uneasily in his chair, 


MATOAKA OFFERS TO MARRY FELIX 139 


watching an eagle circle slowly about a distant 
mountain peak. “I wish I could,” he repeated 
sadly, after a long pause. “I wish I could.” 

“Why can’t you, father?” demanded Matoaka. 

“They won’t let me,” he replied dully. “They’d 
kill me. I know too much. They’d kill Malcom- 
son anyhow. He’d better git, an’ git while the 
gittin’s good.” 

Matoaka could say no more. She felt as if the 
weight of tragic circumstances was slowly but 
surely crushing her. She could not eat her sup¬ 
per, and afterward went directly to her room, 
sad with a sense of lowering storm clouds that 
would envelop them all, including Malcomson, in 
overwhelming disaster. She could not sleep, but 
paced her room with nerves tense, trembling at 
every sound. About ten o’clock she heard horses’ 
hoofs come rapidly down the valley. 

Malcomson, that same evening, had gone alone 
into the mountains east of her home after some 
violators of the law, whose activities had been 
reported to the sheriff. The sheriff, in turn, had 
given the tip to his deputy. 

******** 

The horseman whose approach Matoaka had 
heard stopped at the front gate and came in. 
The dogs greeted him with a great commotion, 
and the girl heard her father angrily silencing 


140 


MATOAKA 


them. Her father had undoubtedly been waiting 
on the porch for the arrival of the unknown 
horseman. She heard him inquire in a low voice, 
“What’s the news?” 

“We got him this time, damn him!” the man 
replied. 

“Speak lower. Somebody will hear,” her father 
cautioned. 

Quickly and silently Matoaka crept down the 
stairs and took a stand in the dark front room 
near the open door. The man spoke so low that 
she could hear very little, but enough to cause 
her to reel and almost fall. With a tremendous 
effort, she pulled herself together and groped 
her way back to her room, where she made rapid 
preparations for departure. She had caught the 
words: “Felix—furriner—Ivy Ridge—Rattlesnake 
Glen—fine plan—we’re safe now.” 

She heard her father and the man walk out to 
the gate and grasped the opportunity thus offered 
her to slip out the back way, softly calling to 
Major, her Belgian police dog. He followed her 
without a whimper. It was after ten o’clock 
and dark, but the moon would rise about mid¬ 
night. 

Matoaka hurried to the stable and had Rose¬ 
wood saddled, ready to go, when she heard her 
father enter the house and the horseman ride 


MATOAKA OFFERS TO MARRY FELIX 141 


off toward town. She led Rosewood out to the 
road in order to avoid arousing anyone, then 
mounted and rode cautiously until certain that 
she was out of reach of her father’s ears. Then 
she gave Rosewood the rein, urging her horse 
to top speed. Major kept close to the horse’s 
heels, making no sound. 

The road, much of the way, was little more 
than a bridle path, but Rosewood was keen¬ 
eyed, sure-footed, wiry and thoroughly familiar 
with his surroundings. 

Overhanging branches of trees and clinging 
tendrils of ..ivy almost swept the girl from the 
horse’s back many times, but she clung on, bend¬ 
ing low, urging Rosewood forward. She was 
bound for Ivy Ridge, where she would look first 
for signs of the terrible tragedy she was confident 
had been enacted. Her heart was beating wildly, 
not so much from fear for herself as from excite¬ 
ment and dread anticipation. She knew not 
what moment she might run into a band of out¬ 
laws, or be shot by mistake from ambush. Her 
preparations had included a revolver buckled 
securely in her belt, but she prayed that she 
might escape observation and not be called upon 
to use it. 

The really very short time which it took Rose¬ 
wood to cover the three miles to Ivy Ridge 


142 


MATOAKA 


seemed ages to Matoaka. Riding up the Ridge 
some distance, she dismounted and spoke to 
Major. “Man lost, Major! Man hurt! Find 
him, Major! That’s a good dog, go quickly! 
He may be dying! Maybe—dead. Oh, God!” 
she half sobbed, “help us find him!” 

Ivy Ridge was a long, narrow backbone, bare 
of timber on top, but with sides thickly covered 
with ivy thickets and scrubby trees—an ideal 
location for lurking assassins to conceal them¬ 
selves while their victim rode or walked up the 
Ridge, clearly outlined against the skyline. 

Major eagerly took up the search, going rapidly 
up the Ridge, alternately sniffing the air and the 
ground, his hair standing up on his back as if he 
sensed the presence of enemies. Matoaka fol¬ 
lowed, leading Rosewood and peering into the 
darkness on all sides, expecting at any minute to 
see a well-known form, but dreading the sight. 

After proceeding nearly a quarter of a mile, 
Major stopped, whined, and uttered a low growl. 
With revolver in hand, Matoaka hastened 
cautiously forward, not knowing what terrible 
sight or what enemies might be lurking amidst 
the shadows. Rosewood manifested some uneasi¬ 
ness and sniffed the air as if he too scented 
danger. 

Matoaka overtook Major standing by a clump 


MATOAKA OFFERS TO MARRY FELIX 143 


of bushes; at his feet lay a hat with a bullet 
hole through the crown. Picking it up, the girl 
recognized it as the one worn by Malcomson the 
last time she saw him. She was afraid to call 
for help lest the outlaws be lurking near and 
hear her voice. She was now fully convinced 
that Malcomson had been murdered. She knew 
the deadly aim of the mountaineer and something 
of their habits and methods of concealing the 
bodies of their victims. Her father’s caller had 
mentioned Rattlesnake Glen. She understood that 
there was where she would find the body. 

The Glen was nearly a mile distant. There 
was not a better spot in all the mountains for the 
outlaws to conceal forever Malcomson’s body 
from human sight. The Glen was a narrow de¬ 
pression between two high hills. It was as if 
the earth had sunk for thirty or forty yards, 
leaving almost perpendicular walls on either side. 
A small creek flowed through the depression 
thus made, while wide-branching hemlock trees 
towered above it, casting the narrow valley into 
shade. A rank growth of laurel and ivy increased 
the impression of gloominess. The place had 
derived its name from the large number of rattle¬ 
snakes that congregated there to hibernate and 
to breed in the Spring. Wildcats, foxes and other 
denizens of the forest found it a safe place for 


144 


MATOAKA 


concealment when too hotly pressed by enemies. 
To drop a dead man in there was like dropping 
him in an abyss of nothingness. No one ever 
frequented the place willingly. 

Matoaka had never visited the Glen, but she 
had heard many harrowing tales of its horrors 
and the dark secrets it held. She now felt sure 
that the body of the man she so greatly loved 
was resting there—and, horror of horrors! that 
he might not yet be dead! It was this thought 
that drove her on. Trembling like a leaf, with 
cold sweat running down her face, she shrank in 
horror at the thought of entering the Glen at 
such an hour and on such a mission. Breathing 
a prayer to heaven for courage and strength, she 
mounted Rosewood, calling softly to Major, “Find 
man, Major, follow trail. Quickly!” 

A soft glow along the eastern horizon told that 
the moon would soon be up, dispelling some of 
the gloom which served to render the scene so 
terrifying. 

Major struck off toward the Glen, head down, 
following what seemed to be a plainly marked 
trail. The country grew wilder and more deso¬ 
late as they proceeded, Rosewood picking his 
way carefully among the trees and over fallen 
logs, following Major. 


MATOAKA OFFERS TO MARRY FELIX 145 


As they approached the Glen, Major quickened 
his pace as if more sure of his quest. A low bark 
escaped him for the first time, and he ran back 
to Matoaka, wagging his tail, as though trying 
to urge her on. Matoaka took heart from the 
dog’s actions, and the first flicker of hope pene¬ 
trated the inky darkness that enveloped her soul. 
They reached the edge of the Glen and Major 
stood peering into the black abyss, whining, but 
not with fear. 


XVI 


A Race With Death 

Rattlesnake Glen was dark beyond description. 
Disturbing sounds of strange animal life broke 
the silence, and the shrill, quavering cry of a 
screech-owl cut the midnight stillness, making 
Matoaka shiver. Descent into the dark abyss 
seemed impossible, even though a way were 
visible and she had the courage to attempt it. 

Major barked, louder this time and more in¬ 
sistently. Matoaka decided to call out, the sound 
of her voice startling her as it broke the stillness. 
“Bruce! Oh, Bruce!” she called softly. 

A faint cry came back from the inky depths. 
With a glad yelp of recognition, Major went 
plunging and sliding over the brink, and Matoaka 
could hear him whining and barking in delighted 
recognition of his friend. 

Again Matoaka called. “Bruce, are you badly 
hurt?” 

“Yes, can you come down?” the answer was 
very faint. 


146 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


147 


“I am afraid not. The bank is so steep and 
it's so dark!” 

“A little to your left there is a ravine where 
you can get dawn by clinging to the bushes,” he 
instructed her. 

Matoaka tied Rosewood and, slipping and slid¬ 
ing, made the hazardous descent. She found 
Malcomson wedged painfully between a fallen 
tree and a large rock, where he had lodged when 
the outlaws rolled him into the Glen. Exerting 
all her strength, the girl lifted him into a more 
comfortable position, observing as she did so 
that his right arm hung limp and that his face 
was smeared with blood. It took all her profes¬ 
sional control to keep hysteria out of her voice. 
“Oh, you are hurt, Bruce! Dreadfully hurt! Tell 
me how it happened. I thought you were dead!” 

“So did our friends, the moonshiners,” he told 
her. “They’re planning a big celebration to¬ 
morrow. I hope we can give them a little sur¬ 
prise by turning it into a ghost dance. I’m dying 
of thirst,” he complained. “Can you get to the 
branch there and bring me some water?” 

She took his hat, which she still carried, and 
scrambled down to the branch, managing to bring 
back enough water to quench his thirst. 

Somewhat revived, he made an effort to pull 
himself to a sitting position. “How on earth 


148 


MATOAKA 


did you get here?” he asked. “Who told you?” 

“No one,” she answered. “I overheard frag¬ 
ments of a message one of the moonshiners 
brought father. Major found you. But for his 
help I never could have made the trip. I never 
expected to find you alive, though,” she added, 
with a catch in her voice. 

“Well, it was no fault of our friends that your 
worst fears were not realized. I managed to 
fool them. The sheriff gave me a tip that I 
would find moonshiners on Ivy Ridge, but I 
think he also gave the boys a tip that they would 
find me there. At any rate, they were expecting 
me and, without any formalities, gave me a warm 
reception. There were four of them and each 
one gave me a token of his regard. I thought, as 
I dropped, that I was done for, but decided to 
play the game through. Remembering how dead 
men looked in France, I have a good imitation 
of one. The trick worked. They seemed to be 
in a hurry and didn’t examine me closely, but 
threw me on the back of a mule and carried me 
here. The pain was terrible, and I must have 
fainted on the way. They rolled me over the 
bank there with the remark that if I wasn’t dead 
the rattlesnakes and varmints would finish me 
in the morning. Then I fainted again from pain 
and loss of blood. I had just revived about the 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


149 


time you got here. Brave old Major!” he said, 
stroking the dog. “And God bless brave, heroic 
Matoaka!” he added reverently. “But now, get¬ 
ting away is the problem. The rattlesnakes, both 
the walking and crawling kind, will soon be 
abroad.” 

“What are we to do?” demanded Matoaka 
disconsolately. “You can’t walk and I can’t 
carry you. To go to town for help would betray 
us to our enemies. And if I am missed from 
home they will suspect my mission and may be 
on the way here even now. What shall we do?” 

After a long pause, during which he did some 
quick thinking, Malcomson spoke, somewhat 
hesitatingly. “There seems to be only one chance 
for us, but I dread, for your sake, to propose it.” 

“Don’t hesitate on my account,” she urged 
eagerly. “What you propose can’t be any worse 
than what I have been through!” 

“Well,” he said, “on the other side of the range 
at Big Vein Camp, there is a squad of detectives, 
members of a private agency. They are daring 
and dependable, and have never been bluffed, 
bull-dozed, nor beaten to a draw. If you can 
reach them in time, we are safe. Otherwise, I’m 
afraid I have lost the fight. I hate to send you, 
Matoaka,” he continued. “It’s a good fifteen 


150 


MATOAKA 


miles hard riding through a wild country and a 
rough road much of the way.” 

“I’ll go!” she interrupted. “Rosewood is strong 
and fast, and I can trust him. Here, take this 
revolver. If anyone tries to molest you before 
I return, you and Major can make some sort of 
defense.” 

“No! No!” objected Malcomson vehemently. 
“You need it more than I. You don’t foresee 
what you may encounter on the way.” 

“I know,” she insisted, “but if Rosewood can’t 
carry me through, the gun would be of little 
assistance. How shall I go to reach the camp?” 

“Go down to the valley road,” explained Mal¬ 
comson carefully. “Strike east to where the road 
forks, and take the left-hand trail up the moun¬ 
tainside toward Pinnacle Gap. After you reach 
the divide, it’s a straight ride for eight miles down 
the side of the mountain. You can’t miss the 
camp. Call for Bascomb Gillespie and tell him 
he is needed over here. He’ll do the rest. You 
had better stay there and rest. Bring me a little 
more water before you go, though. I’m terribly 
thirsty. But I’m not in any immediate danger 
unless the gang comes back,” he reassured her, 
“in which case Major and I will entertain them 
as best we can. Tell Gillespie to make haste!” 

The exertion of speaking had exhausted his 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


151 


strength, but the water Matoaka brought some¬ 
what revived him. 

After further exchange of directions and words 
of mutual encouragement, Matoaka started up the 
side of the Glen for her horse, Major following. 
“No! No! Major,” she cried, “you must stay here 
and guard Bruce!” Whether the dog understood 
her or not, he walked back and lay down beside 
Malcomson. 

Mounting Rosewood, Matoaka picked her way 
down the mountainside. The moon was high now, 
which made it easier to find the path. Reaching 
the main road, she urged Rosewood to his best 
speed. The powerful horse seemed to realize 
what was wanted of him, and responded gallantly 
to her urging. Matoaka bent low in the saddle, 
patting the horse on his glossy neck and talking 
to him encouragingly. The splendid animal 
scarcely slackened his speed as he struck the 
mountain road, climbing the steep grade with 
steady, distance-destroying strides. He was wet 
with sweat and great flecks of foam flew from his 
mouth. 

They reached Pinnacle Gap, topping the 
divide without untoward incident. But just as 
Matoaka felt herself well on the way to victory, 
she saw something which made her heart almost 
stop beating, and the blood run chill in her veins. 


152 


MATOAKA 


Standing at the top of the divide, facing each 
other across the road, so that their horses’ heads 
almost met, were two silent horsemen, blocking 
her progress. 

“Halt!” boomed out a voice which Matoaka 
recognized as belonging to the sheriff. 

For answer she gave Rosewood a cut in the 
flank with a switch she had broken off while 
coming down the mountain. It was the first time 
she had ever struck him, and with a snort of 
amazement and pain, the animal reared on his 
haunches and plunged forward, seeming to bound 
clear of the ground and hurdle over, rather than 
go between, the two standing horses. 

As the sheriff lunged forward to grasp her 
bridle reins, Matoaka gave Felix a slashing cut 
across the face that elicited a roar of rage, and 
by the time the man had recovered from his sur¬ 
prise, Rosewood was a good hundred yards away, 
plunging down the road like a veritable tornado. 

“Stop her! Stop her!” yelled Felix to his com¬ 
panion. “She must not reach Big Vein Camp. 
If she does, we’ve traded the devil for a witch, 
and got hell to boot!” 

Matoaka, rejoicing over her lucky escape, was 
urging Rosewood onward by every means at her 
command without using the switch. That must 
be reserved for another emergency. The two men 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


153 


were mounted on fresh horses, while Rosewood 
was hot and jaded from the long climb up the 
mountainside, and there was still eight miles of 
winding road to traverse before the camp would 
be reached. Had Rosewood been as fresh as his 
pursuers, he could easily have distanced them, 
but his condition gave them an advantage which 
they were quick to realize and press to the 
utmost. 

Matoaka perceived that the odds were against 
her, but the stake for which she rode—the life 
of Malcomson, the man she loved—nerved her 
to make a supreme effort in the hopes that a 
kind Providence would ^interpose in her favor. 
The blood-smeared face of Malcomson rose be¬ 
fore her eyes. She must not lose the race! She 
must win, though it cost Rosewood his life. If 
one must be sacrificed, Rosewood would be the 
victim. 

For three miles, in spite of his heavy handi¬ 
cap, Rosewood held his lead. Then he began 
to break perceptibly, and to falter. Matoaka 
noted his slackening pace and renewed her plead¬ 
ings for even greater speed. She could hear the 
pounding of the approaching horses' feet behind 
her, and the beating of the hoofs was like a devil’s 
tattoo of death on her breaking heart. 

Slowly the distance between the pursued and 


154 


MATOAKA 


pursuers narrowed — seventy-five yards — fifty 
yards—forty—thirty. The sheriff fired several 
shots in an attempt to cripple Rosewood, but his 
aim was wild. But the shots had one effect that 
the sheriff little anticipated, or he would not 
have fired. 

It so happened that Bascomb Gillespie and Bus¬ 
ter Daily were out in the woods searching for 
outlaws and had come down to the road about 
two miles below where the shots were fired. At 
the first crack, Gillespie ejaculated, “That’s either 
an attempt to kill someone or a call for help. 
In either event, we’re needed. Come on!” And 
the two men hurried up the road. 

They reached a point where they could hear 
the pounding of the horses’ flying feet, and Daily 
offered, quite facetiously, “There seems to be a 
powerful horse race on. We’ll be in at the finish 
and hold the stakes.” 

Not ten yards separated Rosewood from his 
rapidly gaining pursuers. The gallant animal was 
staggering, and Matoaka, in an agony of frenzy 
and fear at the thought of failure, was plying her 
switch to the foaming sides of the horse. Rose¬ 
wood did his gallant best, but it was no use— 
he was winded and done for. A mist rose before 
Matoaka’s eyes; outlines were blurred. She was 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


155 


swaying in her saddle; the hard breathing of the 
pursuing horses almost at her back. 

Feeling that the moment of victory had come, 
the sheriff rose in his saddle and shouted, “Halt, 
or Fll fire!” 

“Halt yourself, or we’ll both fire,” came in 
stentorian tones, as the two detectives rounded 
a curve in the road with guns leveled. 

The sheriff was so completely taken back by 
the unexpected appearance of the men that he 
dropped his gun and, grasping his horse’s bridle 
with both hands, pulled back with such force that 
the animal was thrown, breaking a leg and hurl¬ 
ing Felix over his head into the bushes several 
yards below the road. He never came back to 
claim either gun or horse. His companion threw 
himself from his mount and followed the sheriff, 
shots from the detectives’ guns accelerating his 
movements. 

Gillespie caught Rosewood’s bridle with one 
hand and Matoaka with the other, as she reeled 
fainting from the saddle. Rosewood staggered 
a few paces, swayed and collapsed. He stretched 
out his tired limbs full length, uttered a long 
drawn sigh, shivered and lay still. Matoaka 
revived in a few moments and in broken sen¬ 
tences made the men understand Malcomson’s 
desperate need of help. 


156 


MATOAKA 


“Daily,” directed Gillespie, “you take Miss 
Whitfield to the clubhouse, put her in care of 
the housekeeper, rouse the boys, get the doctor, 
and make all speed to Rattlesnake Glen. I’ll take 
this deputy’s horse, after putting the sheriff’s 
out of his misery, and go direct to the Glen. 
I know a short cut and will be there by the time 
you reach camp.” 

Matoaka pleaded to be allowed to accompany 
Gillespie, but the latter objected. “This is a 
man’s job. You’ve done more now than I ever 
thought possible for a woman. We’ll relieve you, 
you are all in and need a rest.” 

He shot the sheriff’s horse with cool delibera¬ 
tion, mounted the other, and was gone. 

“Dear old Rosewood,” said Matoaka, stroking 
the neck of her horse, tears coursing down her 
cheek. “You died the death of a hero and 
martyr. You were a better American than a lot 
of two-legged animals that are allowed the free¬ 
dom of our country!” Then, realizing that it was 
no time for useless grief, she started off toward 
the camp, accompanied by Daily. Her limbs were 
so cramped from the long ride, and she was so 
nearly exhausted, that Daily had to almost carry 
her. 

As the first streaks of dawn lighted up the 
eastern horizon, they entered the camp. In a 


A RACE WITH DEATH 


157 


few minutes Daily had the clubhouse inmates 
aroused, his posse armed and equipped, and, be¬ 
fore it was entirely light, six men, including the 
doctor, were rushing to Malcomson’s assistance. 
By the time they were well under way, Bascomb 
Gillespie was entering Rattlesnake Glen to stand 
guard until help arrived. 


XVII 


In Rattlesnake Glen 

As Gillespie clambered down into the Glen, he 
was checked by a warning growl from Major. 
Reassuring the dog of his friendly intentions, he 
reached the place where Malcomson lay. He was 
astonished to find, instead of one solitary 
wounded man, two wounded and one dead. 

“Hello, Malcomson, old boy!” he called out 
cheerfully. “What’s been going on here? Had 
visitors ?” 

Malcomson was so weakened from loss of 
blood, the chill of the damp ground and the 
horrors of his night’s vigil that he could scarcely 
speak. Gillespie rushed to the branch and 
brought water, bathed his face and hands, remov¬ 
ing the blood stains from his face. Then he 
wrapped his own coat about him and raised him 
to a more restful position. 

“Now,” continued Gillespie, “as we have an 
hour or two to wait for the arrival of reinforce¬ 
ments, you might tell me some of the details of 
the occurrences of the last few hours. I will tell 
158 


IN RATTLESNAKE GLEN 


159 


you first, to put your mind at ease, that Matoaka 
got through safely and is in good hands. She 
killed her horse, but as the fool sheriff killed his 
too, he’ll not be bragging any tomorrow, nor 
claiming the stakes of the race.” 

“Well,” began Malcomson feebly, with long 
pauses between words, “it seems that someone 
saw Matoaka coming this way and reported. 
The gang got scared and sent two men to come 
and conceal my body more thoroughly lest the 
discovery might direct suspicion to them. The 
two men, never doubting that I was dead, came 
boldly down the hill, evidently in a hurry to get 
through with a disagreeable task. Their first in¬ 
timation of interference was a growl from Major, 
such as he greeted you with on your arrival. 
The men were startled and one of them muttered 
‘Wildcat!’ Where we lay it was so dark they 
could not see us, but the moon cast its light 
through the trees so as to give us a good view 
of their movements. They moved cautiously, 
looking for my dead body. Once more Major 
growled. ‘Kin yer see ter shoot him?’ asked one 
of them. I saw the man’s arm go up as if to 
aim his gun. With a howl of rage, Major hurled 
himself at the man’s throat. The fellow, taken 
completely by surprise, fired at random and 
missed, threw up his arm to ward off the attack, 



160 


MATOAKA 


tripped over a log and pitched headlong into the 
ravine, breaking his leg. He has been down 
there ever since, groaning, praying and cursing. 

“The other man jumped behind a tree as Major 
rushed back to my side, growling with rage. He 
was endeavoring to get in position to take a shot 
when I called out, ‘Throw up your hands! If 
you move I’ll kill you!’ It must have seemed to 
him like a voice from the other world,—the ghost 
of his murdered victim returning to haunt him. 
With a shriek of terror, he turned to run, but 
before he could get started, the shrill warning 
of a rattlesnake sang out directly behind him. 
The poor fellow seemed momentarily paralyzed 
with fear. He hesitated, and that delay cost him 
his life. The reptile struck, burying its fangs in 
the calf of his leg. Shrieking like a lost soul on 
the brink of perdition, the man rushed for the top 
of the bluff. By some means the fangs of the 
rattler became entangled in the cloth of the man’s 
trouser and held the snake fast. As the man 
fled in terror, the snake’s long body twisted and 
writhed about his legs in the most horrible man¬ 
ner! The poor wretch made several attempts at 
climbing the steep bank, but kept slipping back. 
On his last attempt he had got about half way 
up when, either overcome by fright, or already 
affected by the poison, he stopped, swayed for 


IN RATTLESNAKE GLEN 


161 


a moment, and then toppled over; he came 
tumbling back into the Glen, the rattlesnake still 
winding and unwinding about his legs. 

“I couldn’t go to his assistance, and his in¬ 
jured companion was too much overcome to move 
or speak. Even Major was affected by the sight, 
and lay trembling at my side. The wretched 
creature rolled on the ground, calling wildly for 
help, varying his cries with appeals to high 
heaven for mercy and pardon. For an hour or 
more he kept up his incessant lamentations and 
agonizing, nerve-wracking cries. All the while 
that terrible reptile kept tugging and twisting 
and thrashing about. The cries and movements 
slowly subsided as the deadly poison did its work. 
The shrieks gradually merged into one low, long- 
drawn, quavering wail of absolute misery, and 
ceased. Then the snake became quiet, but I think 
if you look you will find him still clinging to the 
leg of his victim—and he’s a whopper, too!” 

Gillespie did look, and shot the snake’s head 
off. From its tail he pulled fourteen rattles and a 
button to keep as souvenirs. 

“Gillespie,” said Malcomson earnestly. “I have 
seen terrible things in France, but I pray God to 
spare me from ever again having to witness a 
death like this moonshiner’s. You have heard 
about a hell on earth? Well, I have seen it 


162 


MATOAKA 


tonight. From this time on I am going to be a 
Christian. I don’t want to go where these poor 
derelicts are going and have to witness their 
eternal punishment.” 

“A good resolution!” approved Gillespie. “I 
have been trying it for several years and I find 
it a great comfort to know, as I daily carry my 
life in my hands, fighting these criminals, that 
if they get me I will be going where moonshiners 
cease from troubling and bootleggers give one a 
rest. I would hate to have to fight such reptiles 
through all eternity.” 

It was light now. Gillespie examined Malcom- 
son’s wounds. One bullet had cut a gash straight 
across the top of his head. Had it gone half an 
inch lower, it would have penetrated his brain. 
Another bullet had made a clean hole through 
his shoulder just above the heart. A third had 
struck a rib, splintering the bone. The fourth 
bullet had shattered his right forearm. 

“Boy, they sure were going after you!” said 
Gillespie. “No wonder they thought you were 
dead. It’s a shame to disappoint them! You 
must have a guardian angel following you, or 
else you weren’t foreordained to die at the hands 
of an outlaw,” continued Gillespie. 

Just then approaching horsemen were heard 
on the trail, putting a stop to further conversa- 


IN RATTLESNAKE GLEN 


163 


tion. Gillespie stepped behind a tree, ready to be 
on the defensive, not knowing whether it was 
friend or foe that approached. But he stepped 
out as he caught sight of Daily leading the 
cavalcade. 

“Hitch your critters, boys, and come down!” 
he called. “Hurry up! The outlaws and rattlers 
will soon be on the move. We have killed some 
of both species and their avengers will be thirst¬ 
ing for gore!” 

The doctor dressed the wounds of Malcomson 
and gave him and the crippled outlaw a hypo¬ 
dermic to ease the pain incident to moving them. 
They left the dead man for his own people to 
look after. He was sleeping on the bed he had 
helped prepare for Malcomson. 

In a few hours the two men were safe in the 
hospital under the expert care of Matoaka. Three 
of the detectives remained in town for two weeks, 
one of them on guard day and night. A great 
conspiracy had been cleverly defeated, but most 
of the instigators were still at large, and while 
they were, Malcomson was not safe, even in a 
hospital. 


XVIII 


The Election 

The political campaign was drawing to a close 
and the hopes of the friends of law and order 
ran high as election day drew near. The attempt 
on Malcomson’s life and Matoaka’s daring ride to 
defeat the outlaws had created a sensation. Mal- 
comson in the hospital, slowly creeping back from 
the brink of the grave, was a more powerful 
advocate of reform than he could possibly have 
been on the platform. 

The better class of people had their eyes rudely 
opened to the depths of depravity into which the 
lawless elements were ready to descend in order 
to accomplish their ends. Party lines were ignored 
in the supreme test of patriotism that called them 
to save the honor and integrity of the common¬ 
wealth. Even the big coal corporations woke up 
to the fact that they had been, by conniving with 
criminals, harboring in their midst a boomerang 
that would one day turn and strike them down. 
Realizing their error, these corporations wheeled 
164 


THE ELECTION 


165 


into line behind the standards of constitutional 
government. 

The treacherous sheriff and his gang of po¬ 
litical pirates were publicly denounced, and great 
numbers of their party followers abandoned their 
cause. Practically everyone was convinced that 
the sheriff had deliberately ,sent Malcomson 
into a death trap, and there was much talk of for¬ 
mally charging him with the crime. 

The preacher visited Malcomson often and 
cheered him on the way to recovery with glowing 
accounts of the progress of their cherished plans. 
“With honest, patriotic men in power,” he de¬ 
clared, “with the overthrow of the old gang of 
spoilsmen in this country, we will move forward 
many years in a single day. I have long hoped 
and prayed to see this new era, and when our 
high aims are achieved, I shall feel that my poor 
life has not been lived entirely in vain.” 

“I, too,” agreed Malcomson, “feel that the spirit 
of Lincoln, who toiled, suffered and died for 
human emancipation, will yet prevail in his native 
state and in the nation; and, like dear old Stony 
Jack, I feel that it is a glorious thing to fight— 
and if God wills, to die—in defense of so great 
a country.” 

The first day Malcomson was allowed to ven¬ 
ture out was election day. As he walked slowly 


166 


MATOAKA 


down the street by the Court House, he was 
given an ovation by scores of citizens who had 
come to have great respect for the quiet young 
man who had faced death in defense of justice 
at home with the same cool courage he had dis¬ 
played when facing a foreign foe. 

The election passed off without any display of 
violence. Threats were made, but the steady, de¬ 
termined spirit of the reformers overawed their 
adversaries. The women turned out in great 
numbers, and when the sun went down on that 
memorable day, the old gang of the old days, 
with their antiquated ways and ideas, was buried 
under an avalanche of ballots for the reform can¬ 
didates. 

Improved conditions were marked and imme¬ 
diate. An air of security and happiness was 
manifest among the people. The criminal class 
slunk into obscurity, maintaining none of its for¬ 
mer bravado and defiance. The machinery of 
justice moved more smoothly and swiftly. The 
new circuit judge, Denby Grant, was himself a 
product of the mountains. He had been reared 
and educated among the mountaineers and knew 
all their peculiar traits of character, feelings and 
crude ideas of law and justice. At the opening 
session of his court, he introduced a daring inno¬ 
vation by having the preacher start proceedings 


THE ELECTION 


167 


with prayer, invoking the aid and wisdom of the 
Judge of the Universe in dispensing justice to all 
offenders. This made a profound impression—as 
the judge had anticipated—upon the accused pris¬ 
oners at the bar and all their friends; for in spite 
of their lawlessness, the mountaineers are deeply 
religious and not a little superstitious. The idea 
of having the especial attention of God directed 
in open court to their misdeeds was a little more 
than they expected, and their guilty hearts were 
pierced with deepest foreboding. 

Heretofore, they had been accustomed to get¬ 
ting off with dire threats and light fines—fines 
which they could win back in one night’s work at 
the still. But Judge Grant, in his opening ad¬ 
dress, crushed all their hopes of a continuation 
of this policy, assuring them that he would pursue 
a program of even-handed justice to all, without 
regard to rank, station or political affiliations. 

“I did not make the laws,” he said, “but I am 
sworn to uphold and enforce them. If you don’t 
like the law, have it changed!” 

Then he started the machinery going, and at 
the close of the first session of court the jail 
was so filled with old hardened moonshiners, 
bootleggers and perjurers that they had to en¬ 
large the institution, and the road gang was so 
augmented that good roads appeared in the coun- 


168 


MATOAKA 


ty as if by magic. With so many of the worst 
offenders behind bars, or doing their first honest 
work in many years, a period of comparative calm 
followed the excitement preceding the election. 

Matoaka went back to her duties at the hos¬ 
pital, riding to and from her work as usual. But 
now, instead of her beloved Rosewood, she was 
mounted on a magnificent horse—a gift from 
Malcomson’s father as a token of his apprecia¬ 
tion for the heroic services she had rendered in 
saving his son’s life, and to replace the loss she 
had sustained in the death of Rosewood. 

It was observed that the sheriff no longer 
joined her as she rode home in the evenings. 
Since the night of the wild ride and the events 
following, he had kept to himself and avoided 
meeting her. She was glad to be relieved of his 
unpleasant attentions, but felt quite sure that she 
was not yet free from his sinister designs upon 
herself and Malcomson. Such characters do not 
readily abandon their malevolent purposes of 
revengeful triumph. Through the failure of his 
plot he was furnished with additional motives 
for revenge, and the mortgage still hung over 
her father’s head and farm. She was oppressed 
by a secret dread of future developments. 

When able to travel, Malcomson, at the urgent 
request of his parents, paid a visit of several 


THE ELECTION 


169 


weeks’ duration to his home. Many thought he 
would never return. The outlaws breathed more 
freely and were hopeful that he might remain 
away. And for once Matoaka found herself in 
full accord with the outlaws in their hopes; not 
that she did not want him near her—she would 
sadly miss his visits and companionship—but she 
knew he was marked for death by a band of cun¬ 
ning, relentless murderers, which would never 
rest until its vows were fulfilled. To save him 
from this impending fate, she would gladly have 
sacrificed all personal considerations. 

She would have urged him to stay away, but 
knew the uselessness of such a course; she could 
not ask him to violate his conscience or play 
the role of a cowardly slacker. She would be as 
brave and steadfast as he, and when the dreaded 
day arrived she would smother her grief and 
carry on alone —so terribly alone! 

Alonzo Whitfield remained more at home dur¬ 
ing the Winter, and Matoaka was led to hope 
that he might be trying to break with his old 
cronies before he met the fate of several of his 
neighbors. 

As Spring advanced and nature stirred dead 
things into life, the outlaws began to show signs 
of activity, and several questionable characters, 
on doubtful missions, were seen in various 


170 


MATOAKA 


localities. Malcomson returned about this same 
time, unannounced and unexpected, save to 
Matoaka. He had entirely recovered and was 
in splendid condition for new activities. His 
arrival was received by both sides as a signal to 
prepare for the final test of strength—the last 
desperate struggle between law and anarchy. 


XIX 


Last Stand of the Outlaws 

Malcomson’s plan of action was to strike— 
swift and hard—at the gang’s stronghold in the 
cavern and, if possible, capture the leaders. He 
was more confident now of success, since he had 
the hearty co-operation of a sheriff and several 
deputies, who had proved their metal on the fields 
of France. 

The outlaws seemed to sense the plans of the 
authorities and at once began fortifying the old 
cabin and storing there a large supply of high- 
power rifles, ammunition and food. They even 
commenced the work of digging an underground 
tunnel from the cavern as x a means of escape 
should they be too closely pressed by the officers. 
The quick action of Malcomson prevented this 
latter work from being completed. Malcomson 
kept watch, and, observing the activities of the 
outlaws, hastened his own preparations. A look¬ 
out was stationed near the cabin, and the 
deputies were charged to be armed and ready 
to move at a moment’s notice. 

171 


172 


MATOAKA 


One afternoon the lookout reported an assem¬ 
blage of twelve or fifteen outlaws in the cabin, 
evidently bent on some important move. Mal- 
comson promptly gave orders to move late that 
evening. He went in person to the hospital to 
tell Matoaka his plans. She hastened away to 
try, if possible, to keep her father at home that 
night, but he had already left for the cabin. She 
spent the night in an agony of suspense. 

At dusk, three groups of officers quietly slipped 
out of town by different roads, with orders to 
converge at the cabin. They arrived two hours 
later and took up their stations in the bushes and 
laurel thickets to await developments. Their plan 
was to guard the place carefully until daylight 
before making the attack, unless the outlaws 
should force their hand by coming out. 

A dim light was shining in the cabin and occa¬ 
sionally the shadow of a form flitted about the 
room. The light revealed that the window had 
been boarded up with heavy planks, leaving port 
holes here and there at convenient places. 

Toward midnight, a man was seen approach¬ 
ing cautiously in the direction of the cabin. He 
had observed one group of officers leaving town 
and, suspecting their mission, had come to warn 
his friends. He was not certain he had arrived 
in time and was approaching with great caution 


LAST STAND OF THE OUTLAWS 173 


directly toward the spot where Malcomson and 
four other officers were concealed. Malcomson 
gave orders to two of the men to seize the in¬ 
truder, without noise if possible. The night was 
dark and cloudy and the man walked blindly into 
the trap. The two men sprang upon him x and 
bore him to the ground, pressing the barrel of a 
pistol into his stomach, with a warning of silence 
which he obeyed. He was soon tied to a nearby 
sapling and the men resumed their vigil. 

The hours passed slowly. All was quiet in 
the cabin. Either the outlaws were below, work¬ 
ing on the tunnel, or manufacturing whiskey. 
As the gray light of dawn began to streak the 
eastern horizon, movements were heard inside. 
The door opened slowly and a man’s head pro¬ 
truded, cautiously turning from side to side. 
Seeing nothing to arouse his suspicions, he 
stepped out. The man tied to the tree coughed 
slightly and wriggled. The quick ear and eye 
of the outlaw caught the signal and, with an 
oath, he jumped back, slamming the door shut. 

“Well, my friend,” said Malcomson dryly, 
“since you are so keen to aid your friends, we 
will give you a chance to render them some real 
service. We are here to capture these men and 
destroy their headquarters. The place is sur¬ 
rounded by guards, well armed and ready to 


174 


MATOAKA 


shoot. Escape is impossible. Now, you take 
this note to the window there and hand it in to 
your friends. Bring back their answer. Don’t 
linger long, and remember!—the first false move 
you make will be your death warrant. Now, go!” 

The man obeyed with alacrity, and was back 
in a few moments with their answer. 

‘‘Well?” demanded Malcomson shortly. 

“The chief said,” replied the prisoner, “that if 
you want us come and git us, but you’ll have a 
hot time doin’ it!” 

The gang’s defiance had scarcely been deliv¬ 
ered when a heavy volley was fired from the 
cabin, the bullets striking in the weeds and 
bushes all about the messenger. The outlaws 
had rightly judged that the officers were there. 
Two men were slightly wounded. An answering 
volley was poured into the cabin from three sides, 
and the big, decisive battle was on. 

Malcomson and his immediate command crept 
back farther into the underbrush and again tied 
their prisoner to a tree out of the range of the 
guns. Malcomson had left orders with the new 
sheriff to send reinforcements and a doctor, if no 
word came from them by noon. “They will be 
needed by that time,” he had said. 

The battle raged without intermission, both 
sides using high-power rifles—the bullets from 


LAST STAND OF THE OUTLAWS 175 


the officers’ guns splintering and tearing to pieces 
the barricades over the windows, while the shots 
from the outlaws knocked fire from the rocks and 
bark from the trees as they struck all about the 
officers. 

About nine o’clock the fire of the outlaws 
slackened and Malcomson was encouraged to be¬ 
lieve they were planning to surrender or make 
a dash for liberty. He hoped it might be the 
former. His forces had suffered severely. Two 
brave deputies were already dead, two others 
badly wounded and several others slightly hurt. 
He would soon need reinforcements, and a doctor 
was badly wanted. 

He did not wish to prolong the battle. He 
knew with what feelings of distress Matoaka was 
awaiting the issue of the conflict, and was anx¬ 
ious to spare her unnecessary pain. She had not 
gone to the hospital that morning, remaining at 
home awaiting the outcome of the battle,—a 
battle that, no matter how it terminated, must 
mean heartbreaking sorrow for her. 

The lull in the firing was filled by the outlaws 
in bringing up fresh supplies and removing 
wounded men to a spot where they would not 
interfere with activities. Again the conflict 
commenced. 

The firing of the officers had shattered the 
door and barricades of the windows, so that the 


176 


MATOAKA 


outlaws could not shift their positions without 
great danger, and they were, therefore, forced to 
stick closely to their posts. As the noon hour 
approached, the firing from the cabin slackened, 
and this time a piece of white cloth was pushed 
out through the rickety door. 

Malcomson ordered a truce. The door was 
pushed open and Alonzo Whitfield stood before 
them, haggard, shoes and coat off, hair dis¬ 
heveled and blood trickling down his pale face. 

“Boys,” he said. “I quit! I can’t go on. I 
kin fight the livin’, but not the dead! I’ve bin 
fightin’ agin’ my dead boy an’ the flag he fit 
an’ died fur! I seed him last night hyar in the 
dark. He was all white, only whar blood streak¬ 
ed his face. He was a pintin’ a bloody finger at 
me, scornful like, an’ a shamin’ me. Yer can’t 
beat ther law o’ Gawd A’mghty. It gits yer 
somewhar. I don’t want ter die a fightin’ my 
boy. I want to sur-” 

Bang! Bang! Two shots rang out from the 
cabin, and Alonzo Whitfield lurched forward, 
falling on his face in the yard, shot through the 
heart by his own men. 

Simultaneously with the bark of the two guns 
from the cabin, a third heavy shot rang out from 
a thicket to the right of the house, and Malcom¬ 
son, who had stood up when Alonzo came out, 
felt a stinging blow on the side of the head that 



LAST STAND OF THE OUTLAWS 177 


knocked his hat off. He dropped in the weeds, 
wiping blood from the place where he was struck. 
Houchins, concealed nearby, saw a wisp of smoke 
curling up from the laurel thicket and fired twice 
at the spot. A howl, as from one mortally 
wounded, followed the second shot. 

“That sounds powerfully like the gentle voice 
of ‘Hell-Roarin’ Felix’,” observed the officer with 
a grin, “but we’ll let him howl until this fight is 
over. It’s every man for himself now!” 

Malcomson was not seriously hurt, the bullet 
having struck a glancing, superficial blow. Rein¬ 
forcements arrived, led by the sheriff in person, 
and Doctor Johnson found plenty of work. 

With the arrival of recruits, Malcomson and 
the sheriff decided to end the matter by rushing 
the enemy. Two men obtained a heavy piece of 
timber for a battering ram, a small guard was 
left at the rear of the cabin to cut off retreat, 
and the other officers formed for mass action. 
Pouring a terrific fire into the cabin with their 
rifles, they seized their automatic pistols and 
made the rush. 

As the two men smashed the timber through 
the door, hurling it from its hinges, one of them 
dropped with a bullet in his leg, and the sheriff 
received a flesh wound in the arm. Only three 
men were found in the cabin able to stand, and 
even they were badly wounded. 


178 


MATOAKA 


A sickening sight met the gaze of the officers. 
The floor was a mass of blood. Five men were 
dead, in addition to Alonzo Whitfield. They 
also found a dead woman lying across the body 
of her husband, with an empty pistol in her 
lifeless hand. She had come to the cabin in the 
evening to persuade her husband to go home, 
and when he refused, she and her two small chil¬ 
dren remained, determined to stand by him. 
They found the children—a little boy and girl, 
not old enough to know what it was all about— 
cowering in the opening to the cavern. 

Carrying the dead and wounded to a safe dis¬ 
tance, the sheriff, making sure there were no men 
in the cavern, exploded several sticks of dynamite 
in the entrance, utterly destroying its further 
usefulness for moonshining purposes. Then they 
burned the cabin. 

Cries were still issuing from the bushes beyond 
the house, and Houchins and the sheriff cautiously 
investigated. They found the ex-sheriff lying on 
the ground helpless, suffering intense pain. They 
summoned Doctor Johnson, who did what he 
could to relieve him but shook his head. The 
shot had struck him in the back as he turned to 
flee, and had so injured his spine that he was 
paralyzed below the hips. While he might not 
die, he would never walk again. 

As rapidly as possible the wounded men were 


LAST STAND OF THE OUTLAWS 179 


transferred to the hospital, and the bodies of the 
two dead officers, five outlaws and one woman 
were taken to the Court House to be claimed by 
relatives. Malcomson helped carry Whitfield’s 
body home. Matoaka met them on the porch 
with tearless eyes and compressed lips. She made 
no comment as she opened the door and indicated 
the bed on which to lay the body of her father. 
Noticing the blood on Malcomson’s head, she 
exclaimed, “You are hurt!” 

“Only a scratch,” he replied, “but it has been a 
sad day. Two fine officers are dead and a dozen 
wounded.” 

“Do you know who killed him?” she asked, 
nodding toward the bed. 

“His own men; and I am thankful—if it had 
to be—that it was that way. I would be sorry 
to go through life haunted by the thought that 
possibly I had fired the shot that killed the father 
of Stony Jack.” He turned to go, then came back 
and said, “It may be some comfort to you to 
know that you need have no further fears con¬ 
cerning Felix Luster. He is helpless for life. 
As his last public act, he gave me this token 
of his regard.” And he pointed to his blood¬ 
stained head. “I’ll send out the preacher,” Mal¬ 
comson concluded. “He is needed here.” 

“Bring him,” corrected Matoaka softly. “You 
are both needed!” 


XX 


A Day of Mourning 

Sad, depressing days followed the battle—a 
battle which marked the last desperate stand of 
the outlaws. Many homes and hearts were 
touched by the tragedy. The slain men were 
widely connected with many of the mountain 
families by blood and marriage ties. The slain 
officers were, some of them, relatives of the dead 
moonshiners. In a way it was a family fight. 
The grief and mourning was widespread, and the 
more impressive because of the absence of dem¬ 
onstration. The sense of the inexorable fatality 
of God’s eternal decrees paralyzed their emotions, 
and the survivors made no protest. 

The funerals were attended by great throngs 
of people of all classes, and there was a con¬ 
spicuous absence of any spirit of revenge among 
the friends of the dead moonshiners, such as had 
been in evidence on all previous occasions of the 
kind. The spirit of the outlaws and their friends 
was utterly crushed, and all power of resistance 
broken. 


180 


A DAY OF MOURNING 


181 


The defeat had been so overwhelming, the 
fatalities so great, that all were deeply impressed 
with the invincibility of the government’s power 
when wielded by officers truly patriotic and 
honest. The mountaineers realized for the first 
time the absolute futility of opposing law by 
brute force. Most of their leaders were dead or 
in the hospital under arrest awaiting the con¬ 
vening of Judge Grant’s court, when they would 
begin to pay the penalty for their crimes. 

The funeral of Alonzo Whitfield was the most 
solemn and impressive of all; the crowd in at¬ 
tendance unparalleled in size. The Whitfield 
family was an old and respected one, connected 
in some way with every prominent family of the 
wide countryside. The fall of Alonzo into evil 
ways and his tragic and shameful death, was the 
one dark blot upon a name honored through 
several generations. He was the single black 
sheep to stray from the fold. The funeral serv¬ 
ices were held in the yard beneath the oaks, and 
the burial was made in the old family graveyard 
behind the orchard, where slept Alonzo’s father, 
mother, and grandparents. 

The deepest sympathy of everyone went out 
to Matoaka and her mother in their crushing 
sorrow, a sorrow made more poignant because 
the death of Alonzo had been indirectly brought 


182 


MATOAKA 


about by a dear friend of the family, Stony Jack’s 
comrade-in-arms, whose sense of duty to coun¬ 
try and justice would not permit him to spare 
even the feelings of his closest friends. 

The preacher spoke the last words over the 
silent form of his old-time friend, who had re¬ 
cently been estranged from him because of sin. 
He took for his text the thirty-third verse of the 
third chapter of the Second Book of Samuel: 
“Shall Abner die as the fool dieth?” In his dis¬ 
course, the preacher emphasized the eternal truth 
that “The wages of sin is death,” and that “The 
way of the transgressor is hard.” ‘Hard’ be¬ 
cause he arrays himself against the laws of nature, 
the revealed law of God and the best interests of 
society. That he not only wrongs himself, but 
his fellowmen, his Maker and Redeemer. “The 
very stars in their courses fight against him,” 
and his defeat is inevitable. 

Continuing, the preacher scathingly denounced 
the reckless outlaw, who, by his contemptuous 
disregard of government, would, like Sampson, 
pull down the pillars supporting the temple of 
justice and involve himself and society in one 
common ruin. He urged that the criminal class 
not only be held guilty of its own shed blood, 
but also of that of the murdered officers. He 
showed how the innocent women and children of 


A DAY OF MOURNING 


183 


these enemies of orderly society were the helpless 
victims of the violence of the criminal, unwilling 
partners in his shame and misfortune. Under the 
preacher’s eloquence, the vast assemblage stood 
silent, stern, impressed. The preacher closed his 
impassioned appeal with a brief prayer for all 
the unhappy victims, imploring divine mercy 
upon a stricken community, and the throng 
moved silently to the little family burying place. 
As they stood there, moved to thoughts of a new 
era of law-abiding citizenship, the horizon bright¬ 
ened with a glow promising the dawn of a new 
and better day. 


XXI 


A New Day 

On Monday following the week of the tragedy, 
Matoaka resumed her duties at the hospital, tak¬ 
ing up the burden of the care of the wounded 
men. One of these was the ex-sheriff, the most 
terribly injured of the whole gang. During the 
days preceding and succeeding the funerals, Felix 
was almost entirely ignored by everyone, except 
the doctors and nurses. Outlaws and good citi¬ 
zens alike had in some way come to regard him 
as responsible for the bloody calamity that had 
fallen upon the community. All felt that, while 
his punishment was dreadful, it was just; he had 
forfeited the sympathy of everyone. He might 
live for several years, a helpless cripple with 
plenty of time for meditation and making his 
peace with God; but never again would he play 
fast and loose with the sacred principles of justice 
and constitutional government. 

Malcomson frequently found it convenient to 
ride home with Matoaka at the close of her day’s 
work. Both were saddened by the distressing 
184 


A NEW DAY 


185 


events of the past months and both had that 
brooding look that is seen in the eyes of those 
who have walked hand in hand with Death and 
stood on the brink of Eternity, gazing into the 
mysteries of the Great Unknown. 

Malcomson had decided that as the administra¬ 
tion of the state’s business was in the hands of 
patriotic citizens, his work as a government agent 
was completed. He had risked his life on many 
occasions and freely and gladly shed his blood 
for the honor of his country. The vindication of 
his sacrifice lay in the hands of the loyal men 
and women who would guard their hard-won 
liberties at the election booths. 

As Malcomson and Matoaka were riding home 
one evening, he conveyed these thoughts to the 
girl. She was secretly delighted to know that he 
contemplated giving up his dangerous position, 
but distressed over the thought of his departure. 
She had grown more and more dependent upon 
him as the days passed by. “What business do 
you have in mind taking up?” she asked. 

“Just now,” he replied, “the coal business 
appeals to me. It has tremendous possibilities.” 

They had reached her gate. “Come in!” she 
urged, “and have supper with us. I would like 
to talk over your future plans more fully. You 
see, I must take father’s place now, look after 


186 


MATOAKA 


the farm and pay off the heavy mortgage which 
Felix holds against us. Poor Felixl” she added 
sadly. “He will need his money now; he is so 
helpless and looks so pitiful. He always has a 
look in his hollow eyes like a sheep-killing dog 
caught in the act and expecting to be shot.” 

“Do you think your mother will care to have 
me stay?” Malcomson asked hesitantly. 

“Oh, yes,” she urged. “Mother understands 
and holds no ill-will. She never approved of 
father’s course and always felt that it would 
end as it did. Mother likes you very much.” 

They went in together, and after supper, sat 
on the porch; Malcomson seated in Whitfield’s 
old hickory chair, and Matoaka on a low stool 
opposite. They talked for a long while of the 
various phases of the coal business, and discussed 
plans for the future. The evening was warm and 
pleasant; the moonbeams rested softly on the 
valley and mountains, playing hide-and-seek with 
the shadows in ravines and about the cliffs. A 
light breeze stirred the leaves of the oak trees 
and rustled the corn blades in the garden. An 
owl was hooting in the distant forest, while 
myriads of insects provided an accompaniment of 
monotonous droning. 

Mrs. Whitfield and the children had retired. 
Major lay dozing on the porch, starting up occa- 


A NEW DAY 


187 


sionally and emitting low growls as he re-lived 
in memory the stirring scenes of his life in 
Belgium, or the events of Rattlesnake Glen. 

Conversation lagged. The coal business had 
been exhausted as a matter for discussion. Mal- 
comson and Matoaka were both busy with their 
own thoughts—thoughts that traveled fast and 
far over the checkered careers they had pursued 
since first they met. Both had a feeling that 
tonight marked another turning point in their 
lives—a crisis too pregnant for words. 

Malcomson broke the silence, speaking ear¬ 
nestly. “Matoaka,” he began, “before we discuss 
business further, there is one point we must 
settle. Your decision in this matter will have 
much to do with my future planning. Ever since 
we were in France together, I have loved you. 
I would have asked you to marry me, but we 
were both upset and our lives deranged by the 
turmoil of war, and I thought it best to wait. 
Twice I have given my life into the hands of the 
government to be used in defense of the nation’s 
life. On both occasions you stepped in and 
drew me back from the brink of eternity. That 
I am here tonight, speaking these words, is due 
to your heroic services and steadfast courage. 
And I feel that from every viewpoint, I belong 
to you, if you wish to claim your rights. 


188 


MATOAKA 


“On the battlefields in France the blood of 
Stony Jack was mingled with mine on your pic¬ 
tured face. Stony Jack often spoke of you, and 
loved you with a deep and abiding love. You 
were his last thought, and your name was the 
last he tried to speak. I would be happy to 
have you take his place as my comrade, and I to 
take his place as your brother—and more—your 
husband. Will you accept me?” 

Matoaka sat with bowed head, silently weep¬ 
ing, as he spoke of Stony Jack. Raising her head 
as he concluded, her eyes shone through her 
tears, and she replied, “Bruce, since I first saw 
you that morning in the hospital, and learned 
your name, I have loved you. Day after day, 
my love deepened, and through all the glorious 
time we were together over there, and returning, 
my love grew stronger. It was my love for you 
that held me to my purpose on that dreadful 
ride over the mountains, and gave me strength 
to turn against my father and violate all the cus¬ 
toms of our people. 

“I love you now!” and, with a smile, she added, 
“and I claim my own. I saved you from death, 
partly from the selfish motive of having you for 
myself alone!” 

Without a word, he folded her in his arms in 
a long embrace, while Major wagged his tail 


A NEW DAY 


189 


knowingly, and the moon seemed to smile 
approval. 

After a few moments Matoaka struggled to 
escape from his arms, saying, “There is one con¬ 
dition I forgot to mention. That must be under¬ 
stood before I claim payment of your debt. You 
know the ex-sheriff holds a heavy mortgage on 
our home, and I cannot forsake mother and the 
younger children. I must first see the place clear 
before I can come with you. I could not think 
of hampering my husband, at the outset of his 
business career, with a burden of old debts.” 

“Would you marry me soon,” he asked eagerly, 
“if the mortgage was out of the way?” 

“Yes. Within a few weeks,” she replied. 

“Well, then, you can start preparations at once 
for the joyous event,” he said, “and notify the 
preacher.” 

“Why, what do you mean, Bruce?” she de¬ 
manded, puzzled. 

“That I purchased the mortgage from Felix 
and had him cancel it several days ago,” he re¬ 
plied. “So instead of having to sell yourself to 
the ex-sheriff to liquidate your father's indebted¬ 
ness, I shall make you a wedding present of the 
mortgage, after the preacher ties the knot.” 

“But, Bruce!” she cried in utter confusion. 
“How on earth could you pay off that heavy 
mortgage ?” 


190 


MATOAKA 


“With money!” he returned gaily. 

She was completely bewildered, and sat gazing 
at him in open-eyed wonder. 

Laughingly he continued, “Since you are to 
be my wife within a few weeks, I may as well 
tell you that I am not the penniless chap you 
have taken me for, just beginning a business 
career. After graduating from college, I was 
associated, for a while, with my father in busi¬ 
ness, prior to my enlistment. My father is a 
large manufacturer and coal operator. I can 
resume my relations with his firm and locate here, 
supervising the interests of the company in this 
vicinity.” 

“Where are your coal properties?” she asked, 
regaining her speech. 

“We own the lease on your farm, besides two 
or three larger operations farther down the river,” 
he replied. 

“Why,” cried Matoaka, “my father said the 
company that owned this lease was one of the 
most influential in the whole country!” 

“Well,” he temporized, “not quite that. There 
are a few others bigger, but our corporation is 
quite a long way from the foot of the class.” 

Matoaka had risen to her feet during his amaz¬ 
ing revelations. She sat down now, burying her 
face in her trembling hands. “Oh, Bruce! You 





A NEW DAY 


191 


have killed all the romance of our wedding day,” 
she wailed. “Here I was, thinking and planning 
how we would have to begin at the bottom and 
work together for years to save and build our 
fortune by our own exertions. Besides—I, a poor 
moonshiner’s daughter, can’t marry you—a mil¬ 
lionaire’s son. What would your people say?” 

“That I have shown excellent judgment in my 
choice,” he replied confidently. “My people 
know that they owe it to you that I am still 
with them. They will be delighted to receive 
you as their daughter.” 

Even his reassurances did not serve to calm the 
sobs that shook her. He stroked her hair gently, 
saying, “You need a rest, dear—we both do—and 
before settling down to the business of living, 
we will take a long vacation to recover our poise 
after the strenuous experiences we have both 
been through. I want to visit the old battle¬ 
fields and the spot where Stony Jack sleeps. We 
will go to southern France, where we spent the 
golden days of my convalescence. I want to 
cross the ocean once more with you, and dream 
some of our dreams all over again. I want you 
to pay a long visit to my home, and see where 
I spent my boyhood days. 

“Then, in a year or so, we will come back to 
these hills and here we will build our home and 


192 


MATOAKA 


spend our lives among the purest-blooded Amer¬ 
icans on the continent.” 

Persuaded by his eloquence and the dictates 
of her own heart, Matoaka spent a month in 
happy preparations for the day of days. Mal- 
comson’s father and mother came down to honor 
the event and bestow their blessings, and other 
guests were invited from among the immediate 
friends of the lovers. Mrs. Whitfield, with true 
southern hospitality, ‘did herself proud’ in the 
preparation of the wedding breakfast. 

Matoaka had elected to have the ceremony 
performed in the early morning, intending to 
start immediately after breakfast on their long, 
blissful honeymoon. “You see,” she explained, 
with brimming eyes, “it will be the dawn of 
that wonderful new day for me the preacher 
talks so much about.” 

And so it happened one morning, just as the 
great sun peeped over the sombre brow of Big 
Black Mountain. The two lovers, who had been 
purified from selfish dross in the terrible fires of 
the furnace of war and civil strife, stood under 
the wide branches of the great^oaks, amid the 
bloom and fragrance of flowers, and took the 
vows which were a seal upon the new life they 
were to spend together. 

THE END 



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